Lachrymose
by Armand Malfoy
Summary: Harry is an Auror sent to find an old enemy. He's in for more than he suspected when he realises that some things don't go down well with two thousand cups of coffee a day.
1. Cuts That Never Heal

Lachrymose Part One: 

Cuts That Never Heal 

AN: This fic assumes that Christianity, namely Catholicism, is not exclusive to the Muggle world and that it is practiced by some wizards and witches, the same way some Muggles practice Wicca, I suppose. It doesn't fact too heavily in this installment, but will become more prevalent later in the story. 

I.

It's the same dream I have every night. I'm in my seventh year, and it's two weeks before Voldemort falls, and I'm going down to the dungeons to serve detention for overturning my cauldron. Snape tells me he wants all the ingredients ordered alphabetically by Latin name. I have two hours and no chance of leaving early. 

Snape's just started acting strange the past couple days. In my dream he's on edge, like he thinks someone is watching him from behind, his eyes jerk nervously away from my face as he speaks. Alphabetically by Latin name. Two hours. Don't mess up. 

I drop the twenty-seventh jar. A deep blue liquid is pooling on the stones near my feet and, as I watch, horrified, something inside of it is moving towards me, crawling with a grinding noise like bone on metal until five tiny grey fingers are reaching for the toes of my shoes from out of the blue sludge.

*          *          *

The alarm clock goes off as soon as I start to scream. It's like the two are connected. I blink in confusion for a few minutes. The alarm is hooked up to the radio, so there's music playing. Muggle music. It's not a bad song, but I'm too tired to bother with it. I flick the radio off and stumble into the bathroom. 

These are my morning routines. At six thirty the radio alarm wakes me up. I lay in bed for another three minutes pretending that I'm dead and trying to not to make a list of reasons to stay in bed. I give myself five reasons to get up and slide out of bed. I brush my teeth and take a shower, and I make some coffee while I get dressed. Muggle clothing. Slacks and a button up white cotton shirt. I down two cups of tastelessly burnt coffee and make my way out of my flat and down to the bakery on the corner for a cinnamon roll and an espresso, wondering about things like caffeine poisoning and words that describe the exact colour of the sky. 

From there to the office building, so plain looking on the outside, and down to my basement office. I was offered a partner a few years ago. It's supposed to be safer working with another person. I could never trust anyone enough for that though, so I still work alone. Auror extraordinaire, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Pretends He's Not Living. I grab a cup of coffee from the office coffee maker and add three cubes of sugar and an obscene amount of milk. It tastes like crap, scalding the sugary taste of the pastry out of my mouth. 

And on to the paperwork! Stacks and files and letters and paperwork that will never end. I don't mind it so much though, since the alternative is being out on the streets chasing demons. I've had more than enough of that. 

There's a muggle show I watch sometimes, called the X-Files. It's about these two American FBI agents who investigate the paranormal, things like aliens and monsters and vampires. Everyone else in their agency investigates murderers and terrorists and things like that, so the two agents are the laughing stock of their peers. 

We're sort of the opposite. Everyone upstairs is busy keeping track of different magical anomalies. During the war the whole agency was focused on Voldemort. I wasn't an Auror then, but that's what I've heard. I joined when I was eighteen, and I'm twenty-two now. My first year and a half was spent in reconstruction following the war, fixing things and putting things back in order. There were also a lot of press photos and interviews. 

Now it's different. I asked to be assigned to something less flashy, to the complete bafflement of everyone in the agency. They finally stuck me down here, underground, investigating homicides. There are more than enough of those, and I've gotten quite good at solving mysteries. 

The other people down here are always talking about working their way up to something like Vampire Management, or Dark Magic Control. They ask me what it was like working on the upper levels and I tell the truth: Hell. 

In that light the paperwork isn't so bad. It beats a poke in the eye with a sharp object anyway, and there's all the free crappy coffee I can drink, which has proven to be a daunting amount. I get right to work, because there's nothing else to do. The funniest thing about my job is that I can spend hours a day on nothing but paperwork without ever knowing what it is the papers have to do with. It's like machinery. Write in my name; write a brief description of an event, my opinions of such and such, my feelings on so and so. On and on, all day long, until I have slanted cursive writing transposed onto the insides of my retinas. 

At noon I leave the office and walk to the cafeteria. Ron and Seamus are there, waiting for me at our usual table, with Alarbus, Ron's partner. Seamus' partner is an uptight lady who eats at a deli two blocks away. We make a quartet, eating sandwiches for four knuts each. I spend an additional two knuts on café au lait and Ron smiles and tells me my eyes look bloodshot. Seamus turns the drink into whiskey and I have to threaten him twice before he changes it back. Alarbus shakes his head and grins and says nothing.

After lunch I'm making my way back to my office for another paper cup of coffee and an evening of paperwork, when Assistant Director Kenneth Abernathy catches me in the hallway and asks me to come to his office for a brief chat. That always means one thing; he wants me to track someone down. 

I'm practically a bounty hunter. One with a permanent income though. 

Abernathy surprises me today. When I'm seated and scowling he tosses me a thick file with the name "Severus Snape" written in red ink across the front. 

"I assume you've heard about the Snape murders?"

I glance up at him as my fingers trail over the coarse material of the file. "Fifteen people in the last two days of the second war," I murmur. "Five in the previous war." 

"And a steady stream of deaths since the end of the war," Abernathy adds. "Two or three a year, usually. Muggles and wizards alike. No one's been able to catch him since he went missing five years ago."

"I was given to understand that there were very few attempts to bring him in." This is surreal. I flip through the pages of glossy photos and coroner's reports, tracing my fingers over the smooth surface of a photograph of Snape's familiar scowl. "I was told no one really bothered looking."

"That's partly true," Abernathy concedes. "Albus Dumbledore was under the impression that, given time, Snape would return to us on his own. He stood in the way of a thorough investigation until it was too late to hope for much chance of finding Snape. He's a tricky bastard," Abernathy runs his nervous fingers back through his hair. 

"He certainly is," I say, trapped in the gaze of a five-year-old photograph. 

"We've got new leads though," he rattles on. "New clues. And we can't afford to balls this one up. It'll be great for PR, and it'll be a nice close to a messy episode. All the other Death Eaters have been caught and terminated." 

I shiver at the statement. Abernathy never personally knew a Death Eater. He doesn't have the image of Draco Malfoy's familiar face incinerating, or the melting skin of Neville Longbottom. Love thy enemy, perhaps the cruelest advice anyone has ever been given. 

"You're the best man we've got, Harry. The best Auror I've seen in a long time, and we're privileged to have you working down here in homicides. How would you feel about going after him? It'd give you a chance to settle old scores. I know you must be aching to hit the bastard hard after what he did to…well. I'll have the necessary documents sent to your flat  and you may keep the file. I'll need you to go to Belfast, Ireland. Snape was seen there half a week ago, living quite opulently among the muggles. I'll send you the details and you can apparate tonight and get a hotel. We'll cover all costs, just don't go wild, okay?" 

I nod. "Thank you sir."

"Ken, call me Ken. You've been here almost three years. Only rookies call me sir." He smiles. "Good luck Harry."

"Thank you…Ken." I cringe inwardly. I hate him calling me 'Harry'. Why can't he just say 'Potter'? He calls everyone else by their last name, and I know for a fact that not everyone calls him Ken. In fact, no one calls him Ken. 

'Ken' and I shake hands and I make my way to the coffee machine before leaving. The owl is waiting for me at home with a thick envelope. I send the bird back without so much as a note. I should look through the file and the envelope before I pack, but first, coffee.

Curled up on my sofa with the papers in one hand and a mug of thick black coffee in the other I am ready to tackle the world. 

I am, however, wholly unprepared for the photographs in the case file. The first five victims were long before my time, bloodied remains of muggles with horror written across their faces. I wonder what they must have seen to make them so afraid, and a few quick glances through the reports on their death leaves me cold with the knowledge of the hurt one wizard can cause. 

I review old knowledge. In the last few weeks before the end of the war Snape began caving in to stress of some sort, appearing agitated and out of sorts, almost afraid. The day before the Dark Lord fell Snape snapped. He took out fifteen people all together, six muggles, four dark wizards, and five wizards working for the Order of the Phoenix. Those photos are almost too much for me. 

It wouldn't be so bad if it were just the killing curse. I've seen that enough times to get used to it. I can recognize it at once. This is different. Snape used something different for this. The coroner's report claims he killed the muggles with his bare hands, ripping tendons and breaking necks, and bite marks were found on the body of one young victim. 

The dark wizards are mostly unfamiliar, but I do recognize one. Blond haired Lucius Malfoy, missing his pretty grey eyes. 

And those lost warriors of the light. My fallen comrades. It tears a sob from my throat, and I wasn't expecting this at all, fool that I am. Hermione, Dean, Arabella Figg, Cho…I don't know the fifth victim. She was young though; a few years younger than me and newly signed on. I've never hated Dumbledore for enlisting children more than I do right now. Why did he have to make this a children's crusade? Why did he put so many students in danger? Just because he couldn't get enough soldiers? 

And why did he put us in harm's way? Why lead us to believe in our safety when all the time monsters like Snape lurked in the shadows? Hidden demons, a million times worse than those things the Aurors are battling with. All the photos fall to the floor, and I take a long gulp of my coffee. 

There've been a steady string of deaths since Snape's disappearance. In total he's murdered thirty-two people to date; twelve wizards, twenty muggles. His glossy photographed eyes stare hollowly up at me from the floor, like they're seeking me out. Well Snape, I think, I'm seeking you out too. For Hermione and for Cho and for everyone you hurt…and for me, most of all for me. For confusing me. For betraying my trust. We'll just see who ends up on top.

The photograph winks. 

II.

Belfast. It's late when I arrive at the inn. My nerves crackle with the knowledge that Snape is somewhere in this city. I can almost feel him next to me as I check in and lug my bags up a flight of stares and into a dingy little room with no view. I set my alarm for seven, figuring I can use an extra thirty minutes of sleep. It'll be twelve, at the earliest, before I fall asleep. I've enough caffeine in my system to keep me up for ages. 

The TV proves to be my saviour. Late night shows, reruns of old comedies, music videos, the Christian channel…I flick it off after an hour and a half, falling into a troubled sleep. 

*          *          *

The thing is reaching up to grab onto my shoe, and I know without being told that I'll die if it so much as touches me, yet I can't move away. The thing is growing, getting larger, taking shape before my eyes, and all I can think is 'what in hell _is_ this thing?'

And suddenly I'm pulled backwards, nearly toppling over as Snape's arms drag me out of harm's way, out of the creature's reach. I let myself rely on his strength, only to find that he's moved away and I'm falling, crashing backwards so that I land on the hard stones, legs splayed and head spinning, my back against his desk. 

I can just see his back as he hunches over the thing, so I don't know what he's doing. The scent of mold and human waste is enough to make me gag, and then there's a sick, squelching kind of noise, and a high-pitched squeal. When Snape stands up again there's nothing on the floor, and the scent is already fading. 

He makes his way to my side, expression taut and worried. He looks so old as he crouches beside me. "Are you hurt?" 

*          *          *

The radio sounds far too early for my liking. It's something with violins, and I pull the covers up to my forehead and pray for a coma that never comes. I listen intently to the morning music and for a few minutes I forget that I have to get up at all. I know the longer I stay, the harder it will be to get up, the guiltier I will feel at the wasted time. Still, I wait out the song, driven from my bed only when the radio personality's obnoxious voice cuts through the webbing of blankets I've created around myself. 

Shower, brush teeth, comb hair. The coffee machine and provided instant coffee make a meager breakfast, and I drink three cups. I glance at the clock, and the red numbers tell me it is already seven forty five. Time to get to work. I fold the most recent photo of Snape in half and put it in my pocket. Then, on a whim, I pick up the photo of a twenty something Snape and put it in my pocket as well. I make sure to charm them both first, of course. No miraculous moving pictures today. 

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going. I just walk along streets, glancing about now and then at the people rushing past me. This is how I work. Good old 'Ken' would call it a gift, but it's really more of a talent. After about four or five blocks I stop outside a used bookstore. It's a very old building, with cracked windows and bad lighting. As I push the door open the scent of musty paperbacked books nearly knocks me off my feet. 

Yet, as I stand in the doorway, my eyes adjusting to the dim light, I begin to find the smell comforting. It's almost luxurious. I walk to an aisle, run my fingers along the cracking spines of a hundred novels with yellowing pages. I pull one down, read the title. _The Island of Dr. Moreau_. My fingers caress the title gently, and I feel almost like I'm communicating with the book. It feels like the pages are speaking to me, calling out to me. I recognize a charm at once, and know that it's not luck that I pulled this one book down. 

Without considering the danger inherent in my actions, I flip the book open and let the pages slide back and forth between my pages like a flipbook. There's a small envelope stuck in near the end of the book, my name clearly printed on it in gold ink. I snap the book shut and make my way to the cash register. 

As the storekeeper rings up my purchase I sort through my pocket for the correct amount, and my fingers brush the photographs. I pull them both out, indicating the recent one. "Have you seen this man around? Maybe buying or selling some old books?"

The man scratches his chin thoughtfully. "Can't say I have," he's says with a thick accent. "Though he do look familiar. Who's the other one? I wager I've seen him in here a few times." 

"This man?" I hold the photo of young Snape incredulously. "You've seen this man in this store recently?" 

"Oh sure," he says. "I remember now. He's in here all the time. Buying and selling all manner of things, some books I've never even heard of. He sold us this one. You want to see some of the others?"

"That's not necessary," I answer, picking up my change, the book, and both photographs. "Thank you for your help."

"I'll let him know you were looking for him," the man calls as I turn to leave. 

"No need," I tell him. "He'll know anyway."

I wait until I'm in a café down the street, sipping my latte, to open the book and seek out the envelope. The thick paper opens as I run my finger under the flap, and I extract a sheet of creamy parchment folded over three times. I smooth it out on the table. Red ink matches the gold of my name, and it'd almost be funny if I weren't so scared. 

"Dear Mister Potter," I read silently. "I had wondered how long it would be before our paths crossed once more. I cannot express to you how often my thoughts have bent towards you, and, in the depth of night, I often feel that you are thinking of me. I wonder how you must have reacted to my so-called crimes. Of course I've read your official statements, that I am a troubled soul, that the strain was too much for me, that you were completely shocked at my actions. But what do you really think? What did you feel, the night Dumbledore called you into his office and told you in plain language that Granger was dead? Did you cry? Did you cry harder for Cho? Or for Dean, perhaps? We both know which direction your affections lie."

I can hear Snape's low, dark voice speaking the words I'm reading. My fingers are clenching so tightly that I'm forced to put the latte down before my nails puncture holes in the cardboard of the cup. I read on.

"So it comes as no surprise that you are here now. Do you consider this revenge, or just your duty? I have to admit, I was surprised to read about your decision to join the homicide division of the Aurors. Did you do it to avenge your poor sweet friends, continue a fight to bring all Death Eaters to justice? I am, I realise, the last of the living Death Eaters. Your agency is incredibly adept at capturing fools, I give you that. Do you imagine me so easy to trap?

"I would warn you to stay out of this, but I know you've always been too brave for your own good. So I'll just say I'm looking forward to this chase. It is, if nothing else, an excellent opportunity to see you again. It's really been too long."

I choke down a mouthful of latte. "Love, Severus," I read aloud, biting out the ironic cursive with a grimace. The slanted crimson words burn up at me accusingly from the page, and I sigh heavily, digging the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see a flash of light. The letter goes back in the envelope goes back in the novel goes back in the bag and I go out the door, heading to my room at the inn to owl Abernathy and make another pot of coffee.

Abernathy's head pops up in the fireplace a few minutes after I arrive. I glance at him and turn back to making coffee. "Hey, Ken," I greet him, sneering though he doesn't see. 

"Hullo Harry! How's work coming?" 

"Just lovely," I tell him, sitting down on the sofa with my mug. "I've got a letter here from Snape. He left it in a book for me to find."

"Very clever, very, very clever," Abernathy muses like an idiot. "Any sign of him so far?"

"One. The bookstore owner claims to have Snape, but identifies him as far younger than he is." I sip the coffee, savoring the scalding feeling that scars my mouth. "I'm going to go back to the store later and ask a few more questions." 

"Good, good. Don't work too hard Harry," Abernathy blathers on. "You look like death warmed over my boy! And…gracious! How much coffee do you drink? Do you get any sleep at all? Relax a little. I'm sure you'll do fine."

"Thanks, I think." I hide my grimace behind the coffee mug as I take another burning drink.

"Lots of pretty girls around, I'm sure." He winks at me. He actually winks at me. I bristle at him. "Well, I won't take up anymore of your time. Contact me when you've got anything substantial." He vanishes as suddenly as he came.

I don't bother arguing that the letter is, in itself rather substantial, as is the fact that Snape knew I was coming and has apparently cast some sort of glamour on himself. I'm actually rather relieved that Abernathy doesn't dwell on the letter, because I'm not sure I want to share it. It feels heavy, important, and a little bit incriminating. I know that nothing would be given away in it that I couldn't repair. So what if Abernathy knew my sexual preferences? It might shut him up about 'pretty girls' and the like. 

But on the other hand, the overall tone of the letter is questionable. Snape must have relied upon this, the fear of discovery of what happened so long ago, to keep me quiet. Clever is an adequate description for the man, certainly. 

The clock reads eleven fifteen. I must have spent more time wandering than I thought. My stomach rumbles, and I decide that lunch would be a welcome event. The inn has a restaurant downstairs, so I catch an elevator and go down. I order pancakes, and the waitress, if she finds this odd, makes no comment and brings me a delicious stack of them. I eat them with butter, no syrup, and drink four cups of coffee and leave a generous tip. If anything, my stomach feels worse now than it did when I was hungry. 

I retrace my earlier steps back to the bookstore and find the storekeeper right where I left him. He smiles as he recognizes me. "Back so soon?"  

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," I inform him. "About the man you mentioned earlier."

"Certainly. Anything you'd like to know. He's one of my best customers." 

"How much do you know about him?"

"Not a great deal. He's British, moved here early last winter. He told me once that he was living in a house his grandfather had left him, and that the books he brings were found in the attic."

"Did he tell you where exactly this house is?" I'm so close I can taste it, but there's something very dangerous about how easily this is coming. 

"Sure. Once or twice I've had to send a man over to haul large amounts of books. He lives just out of the city. I can give you the address if you want, hold on just a moment…" He turns to rifle through a small pile of papers and I drum fingers anxiously, glancing towards the door as if Snape is about to walk in. "Here it is!" He waves a small yellow note triumphantly. "Let me just copy is out for you…here we go." 

I leave the store in a grim mood. I know I should tell Abernathy about this, but he'd just bungle things miserably. And I have to do this alone. I feel like I have to see him again, have to confirm the letter in my pocket, the sorrow in my head. I have to see him. So maybe he was right, and I've only agreed to take this case out of a morbid wish for revenge. 

But not for the reasons he gave. 

III.

"I think I'm…" I gasp as the world spins around me. "I'm…"

Snape's face is grave as he peers at me. "You're eyes are dilated. Breathing irregular. Do you think you can walk?" I nod, unable to manage the words needed to express the affirmative. "Good. Follow me." 

I find my knees watery and weak, and I wobble after him, hardly aware of where he's leading me. I'm mesmerized by the swish of his robes, the long strides he takes and the smell of cologne, so faint but still noticeable, lingering in his wake.

There's a lapse, the way some things are just omitted when you're dreaming, and you don't really miss them. I'm in what I know is Snape's living room, sitting on what I know is his couch. I know the way you just know, when you're dreaming. Snape is standing over me, looking worried and upset, holding a goblet of something thick and golden coloured. 

"Drink this." It tastes like almonds and honey, and I have no problems complying with Snape's commands that I drain the whole cup. It's gone in an instant, and I lick the last traces of it from my lips nervously, feeling amazingly better already as I mumble my thanks. He sneers.

"What was that thing?" I ask, because really, I'm dying to know. 

"A particularly unpleasant piece of dark magic flotsam that I should have thrown out years ago," he answers, sitting down next to me and taking hold of my chin. "Just relax, will you, I have to make sure you aren't infected."

I almost ask "infected with what" but decide I'm better off not knowing. I tilt my face according to the pressure of his hands, opening my eyes wider upon his command, opening my mouth so he can peer inside like an oral spelunker. I can feel the room start spinning again, but I don't think it's the dark magic this time…

I jerk awake fifteen minutes before my alarm is set to go off. I'm covered in sweat and, I realise, still too exhausted to bother getting out of bed. Instead I lay back and stare at the ceiling, concentrating on the sound of my breathing, as I will my heart to beat at a measured and regular pace. I don't think about Snape, and how, before very long, I'll be seeing him again. I don't think about how I'm going to hire a car to drive me out to his home today, or how I don't know what on earth I plan on doing once I get there. I don't think about my dream. I don't. 

I don't think for the whole fifteen minutes, and the radio turns itself on with a barely audible click, launching into the middle of a song I've never heard before. I'm awake enough now to appreciate the lyrics, still too tired to fool myself I'll remember it later. It's got a delicate sort of melody to it, and I don't move. 

Eventually, of course, I have to get up and switch off the radio. By the time I'm out of the shower I can no longer remember what it was that so delighted me in the song, and all those thoughts I wasn't thinking before have found their way into my mind. No matter, I've work to do. 

There's a car rental agency a few blocks from the inn, and I get a nice little silvery number, all leather interior and new car smell, CD player and the impersonal feel of something that's not really mine. I switch on the radio and pull out the directions the man at the bookstore gave me. It'll take me about an hour to get to Snape's house. It'll take me about fifteen minutes to have a troop of Aurors apparate in with me and arrest him. I'm being a complete idiot, risking my job, and my life.

Shaking my head, I put the key in the ignition and start on my way. 

*          *          *          

"Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours ago!" I flick the radio off. I'm parked outside Snape's house, a few houses away. It's nothing fancy. There's a fair sized front yard with immaculately trimmed grass, though I can't for the life of me envision Snape gardening. It looks like there's a large back yard, and I picture it with gardens of herbs, things you can't just go out and buy any old place in Muggle Belfast. 

The house is nondescript, pale yellow, nothing important. I close my eyes and try to picture what life would be like, if I were to go up and ring the doorbell, like the idiot I'm becoming. In my mind's eye I see Snape opening the door, wearing grey trousers and a sweater, just the way I remember him with those stern lines etched into his face, his hair lank and dark falling to his shoulders. Would it feel the same if I reached out and touched it? In my imagination it does, the same greasy thickness to it. I remember Hermione's short-lived crush on Snape, her insistence that his hair was actually very soft and only looked greasy. I tried to explain to her then that greasy and soft do not look the same and, sometimes, things are exactly what they look like. I won the argument, but I wish I hadn't.   

I grab my wand, shove it into my pocket, and exit the car. My keys go in the other pocket, and I creep into the backyard of a house next to Snape's. My plan: swing myself over the fence into Snape's yard, pray he's not home, break in and…and wait, I suppose. 

I wish I had my invisibility cloak, even if he could still sniff me out somehow. 

Snape is, thank Merlin, nowhere in sight when I jump into his yard. Maybe he's out buying books and leaving cryptic messages for me to find later. I don't care. The garden isn't quite what I'd thought it would be. There are a few unusual plants, but nothing obviously magic. There's a tree, oak, I think, and a lawn chair in the sunshine. This could be anyone's house. This could be anyone's life. But it's not; it's his, and it's what I could have, should have had. 

I walk to the back door and press my wand against the handle. I've been feeling for wards since I drove up, but there are none, and the door unlocks under the pressure of my magic. I proceed with caution, but if I were really playing it safe I'd get out of here now. It doesn't make sense, this lack of wards. Snape was always paranoid in the past, and he knows I'm after him now, so why isn't he protecting himself? 

The answer is painfully obvious once I'm inside. A quick search of what I take to be his bedroom reveals that most of his clothes is missing, apparently packed in great haste. I do a brief investigation of the rest of the house, ending in the kitchen. He's got the most normal house in all of the world. Television, sound system, couch, novels, a fridge with a few pictures held on with those poetry magnet things. The words are placed in what, at first glance, is no particular order. "Hold Apart Run Red You." Harry. Very clever. 

The pictures are a little less expected. One is of a Snape that looks so young I'm almost convinced he cut it from a yearbook. It's a muggle photo though, probably taken from a disposable camera, judging by the quality. The young Snape in the picture is wearing a tuxedo and holding a glass of champagne, giving a sour half smile to the camera. He's got a girl at his side, probably in her late twenties, flashing a pearly smile. I take the picture and read the back. "Arrienette and I, June, 2002."   

There are a few more photographs, some of Snape alone, some in a crowd. There's only one other picture of Arrienette, and Snape isn't in it. She's wearing jeans and a battered blue sweater, and she's sitting on some rocks looking out at the ocean, her brown hair pulled back and her legs drawn to her chest. The back says, "Camping in America, 2002." 

The last thing on the fridge is an envelope. I take it down, opening it carefully so as not to tear the letter inside. I slide the paper out and unfold it, reading the familiar handwriting for the second time in two days. 

"My Dear Harry," it begins, and I choke. "I may surmise, I take it, that finding my home provided you with little difficulty? I am not so well hidden as I once was, but, as you have realised by now, still evasive. If you hoped to wrap up your case so quickly I do hate to disappoint you. I wonder; are you alone? I could still be in the house, you know. This could be a ploy, a trap. You've always rushed into things headfirst, despite my best attempts to rid you of the dangerous habit. Well, no matter; you're in no danger at the moment. 

"I have, as you have seen, fled. You have my complete permission to search the house though, knowing you, that's already been done. Get your ministry friends in here if you like, but watch out for the top step to the cellar; it can be a bit tricky. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. I'll ask only that you feed Galatea for me. Love, S.S." 

The letter ends in his flourishing black initials. What the hell is a Galatea? I'm suddenly less sure than I was. Snape said in his letter I'm in no danger at the moment, but he's not the world's most honest homicidal maniac, and it's entirely possible he's set loose some sort of creature in his house as a trap for me. 

I'm about ready to flee when I hear a soft meowing and glance down. A black fluff of a kitten is sitting at my feet, its large eyes quizzical. I lean down and offer it my hand to sniff, and it butts against my fist. So I lift the cat and cradle her against me, maneuvering her collar so I can get a look at the name on her tag. "Galatea; Severus Snape" and then the address. Of course. 

There's one thing that still bothers me. Holding the cat, I head for the unexplored area of the house; the cellar. The first step feels soft under my foot and I skip it, moving down into the darkness of the basement. It's colder down here, and I shiver. I cast a quick Lumos spell and continue downwards. 

When I reach the bottom it's still too dim to see much more than my feet. Something smells rancid, and I almost don't want to see what's around me. But I've made a commitment, and I don't think I could back out now, no matter how badly I want to. I whisper the words to brighten the room, take one look, and scream. 

IV.

"Merlin, Harry!" Ron waves his hand in front of my glassy eyes. "Are you in there?" 

We're in Snape's kitchen. The Aurors showed up five minutes after I contacted them, and are currently swarming all over the house looking for clues. Snape's letter is in my pocket. "Mm," I make a noise intended to reassure him. Someone hands me a cup of coffee. It tastes like liquid heaven. "I want off this case, and I'm not above begging." 

"I would too, but you're the only one who can track Snape. You're the most talented Auror in your division. If you brought down the Dark Lord you can bring down Snape." Ron rubs my shoulder reassuringly. "You'll get that bastard." 

I shake my head. "He's not like Voldemort." Ron flinches. "Voldemort had…motives. He had his pride, and it blinded him. Snape…I don't even know why he does the things he does. I can't figure him out." Galatea winds herself around my feet and I bend over and pick her up, afraid someone will step on her. "He's willing to sink to the depths of hell if it'll keep him safe. He can drag his belly through the dirt without fear of disgrace. A true serpent, unlike You Know Who." 

Ron is giving me a curious look. "What's that?" 

I glance at the cat. "Snape's cat. He wants me to feed it." Galatea purrs and I stroke her methodically. Ron is giving me that look again. "What?" 

"You realise you're taking orders from the enemy?" Ron asks. "The man has a skinless corpse in his basement and you're feeding his cat." 

"It's not her fault," I mutter. Galatea meows her agreement. 

"Harry! Thank Merlin you're alright!" Abernathy is elbowing his way through the crowd towards me. I smile sourly at him. "I want you to know that I am incredibly displeased in you for not contacting me before you headed in."

I open my mouth to reply, but he holds up hand. "However," he continues. "I understand that this is your style, and that I should not interfere with your techniques. We mere mortals cannot hope to understand, eh Harry?" He winks at me. I want to gag. In my head, a voice sounding suspiciously like Snape's says, "What techniques? What style? All I do is rush in headfirst and try not to get killed!" 

Abernathy is blathering on about something or other, and I can tell he's not going to let me off the case. Even if I beg. 

*          *          *          

It's the same dream I have every night. Snape's hands feel like silk as they slide over my face, and you really must have seen this coming. I close my eyes and open my mouth, and I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and surrender to his kiss. Somehow, in the midst of a war, at the end of the days, we've become entangled. His tongue is in my mouth, my hands are in his hair, and I can hardly tell where one of us ends and the other begins. 

My back is pressed firmly against the armrest of Snape's couch as he pushes against me, and I guess I'm not infected after all. In the dream this feels good, but in real life it felt so much better. Snape's hand trails down my neck, brushing my chest and then tugging my robes open. I shiver at the feel of his hand on my bare skin as he slides his fingers under my shirt to stroke my stomach. 

I feel his lips slide wetly along my neck, and I feel my robe being pushed off my shoulders and tugged away from me, thrown onto the floor. Snape's fingers dance under my shirt, playing over my hardening nipples as I groan and gasp and press myself against him. My whole world is catching on fire. Starting in the pit of my stomach and shooting out into the tips of my fingers, the roots of my hair, the soles of my feet, I feel uncontrollable pleasure. I'm coming undone in his arms, writhing and moaning before he's even gotten me fully undressed. 

Everywhere he touches feels like it's been sewn to him with magical threads. He blows a cold breath against my neck and pulls off my shirt in one smooth motion. "Wouldn't you prefer the bedroom?" 

The dream lapse leaves me spinning in the darkness and silence of sleep without vision, and then I can feel the softness of his bed beneath my back. It feels so good I want to sink into it almost more than I want what his mouth is doing to my neck. I gasp and close my eyes, my heart racing as we try to express without words just what it is we're feeling. The swipe of his tongue is "I love you", the push of my hips, "That feels good." And so we carry on, translating our emotions into words, our words into actions, our actions back into sensation, and it's not long before the semi-silence is broken by our gasps for air, my ragged screams. 

The arch of my back is "More" and he answers with the slide of his fingers inside me. Translating our thoughts we join and rejoin; lips part and reclaim one another. He's heavy and hot and oh Merlin! Absolutely perfect. And I twist underneath him, so unexpectedly impaled and shattered. And the grip of his fingers around my cock is the chatter of "yesyesyes" inside my brain.  

And the silence that comes afterwards, when he's curled around me like my guardian panther, is the most absolute sound in the world.


	2. Light From a Dead Star

  
Lachrymose Part Two   
Light From A Dead Star   
AN: This concerns the time period of the story. The story is taking place in the spring of 2003. Harry is twenty-two, because in the spring of 2003 he would be. I realize Snape appears much younger than he would in 2003, no matter what the season, and that the picture on his fridge was dated 2002. I meant to do that. Trust me. 

I. 

I'm stretched out on my bed with my feet at the head and so that I'm looking over the end, lying on my stomach, at home in my apartment in Muggle London with a slew of photographs spread out on the floor in front of me. Galatea is sitting on the small of my back, her tail twitching against my thighs. Below me is a montage of mysteries. Snape's smirking twenty-seven year old face juxtaposed with the harsher image of the Snape I knew. Thirty-two glossy magic photographs stay still, because not even magic can make the dead rise. Five of those are turned face down. 

Last, I have my six stolen, muggle snapshots. Six pictures; three questions. Why is Snape young again? Where is he now? Who is Arienette? 

I've been staring at these photos for hours. I know the answer isn't going to be found in my bedroom. I let my fingers brush the shiny surface of the picture of Arienette. She's not much older than I am, curly dark brown hair and brown eyes. Straight white teeth and healthy skin. She's pretty, but she's not drop dead. Maybe that's just jealousy though. 

Yes, jealousy. I admitted that to myself three hours ago when I spread out these photos. It's irrational. It's idiotic. For all I know her skinless body is decaying in the ocean she's gazing at in this picture, but it sure doesn't look like it would be. So she's just another symbol of how betrayed I feel, she's just another clue, and she's just another mystery. 

I pause in my mental tirade, back up a few thoughts. Decaying in the ocean…the ocean! Of course! I don't know who Arienette is, but there has to be someone who does, and how better to find out than to investigate? I jump up, upsetting the cat, who meows in annoyance and then jumps primly to the ground and steps delicately around the photographs and out the door. I've already thrown the closet door open and ripped a few shirts from their hangers. I've got some packing to do. 

* * * 

The San Juan Islands are about as far from England as you can get without going to Proxima Centari. At least it feels that way. I can't apparate because they're too far away. So I'm stuck apparating from England to Rhode Island, Rhode Island to Montana, Montana to Washington. I rent a car when I reach Seattle, Washington, and take a ferry to Orcas Island, which, I've been told by locals, is where the picture was taken. 

The ferry takes almost two hours to reach the Friday Harbor, on Orcas, and staying in my car makes me feel claustrophobic, so I get out to wander the upper decks. I give the cafeteria worker one greasy American dollar in exchange for some greasy American coffee, but I can't find any sugar, so I drink it without. I really don't care what my coffee tastes like, so long as it is, in fact, coffee. 

There's not a whole lot to do on this boat. There's a play area for little children, with a few five year olds are running up and down its plastic expanses, and there's a small arcade where muggle adolescents are feeding coins to video games. I remember Dudley used to love video games, and I walk over, digging in my pocket to find the right amount of money. I die in thirty seconds, tops, and decide that video games are stupid anyway. 

When we finally reach Orcas Island I'm about ready to die of boredom. I drive into the town and promptly get lost trying to find a hotel. The streets are small and packed with people. It's nearly summer, and there are just enough tourists to make driving impractical. I manage to find a hotel with a parking lot and quickly procure a room. 

After I've unpacked I return to the front desk with my picture of Arienette on her little rock cliff, looking out at the ocean. The man at the cashier doesn't seem busy, so I walk over. "Hi," I greet him, smiling as politely as I can. "I'm not from around here and-" 

"You couldn't be, with that accent." He grins at me pleasantly. "No one is really from around here. Most of the homes are further out on the island, not in town. What can I do for you?" 

"I'm looking for this spot," I tell him, and hand him the picture. "Do you know where it is?" 

"Sure! That's about a twenty, maybe thirty, minute drive from here. It's a camp sight. I can get you a brochure if you like. It has directions in it." 

"That would be very nice, thank you." 

He hands me the pamphlet with a smile. "Are you here on your own?" 

"Yes, I'm working, actually." 

"Must be important if you've come all the way from across the pond." 

"It is." 

"Well, just let me know if there's anything I can do for you. If you're going to go camping, you'll want supplies, and I know the best stores in town." He smiles at me again, and it's striking how sincere he can be so easily. How easy it is for him to smile. 

* * * 

I drive out to the camp sight that afternoon, and I'm not sure what I'll find. I half expect Snape to be waiting for me, or this Arienette to just pull herself out of the water like a mermaid and tell me all the secrets I'm searching for. 

The ocean is beautiful from here. The camp sight is full of tents, each with a picnic table and a spot to build a fire. There are trees and bushes blocking the road from the area, and the site is on a hill, sloping gently downwards, leveling out, then going down again until it levels out at a gravel path. Beyond the path is a small field of pale, dry grass, some trees, and then the ocean. As I walk closer I see that the grass gives way to rocks, creating a rocky cliff that you can climb down and across, until you're at the edge of the pounding waves. Kelp floats by, brown and green, and there's a steep rock cliff with a cove at the bottom and a few people kayaking. I wonder how they got down without falling, but I've got more important things to think about, because I've found the spot in the picture. 

I glance from my photo to the spot, trying to see her there, to get some sense for who she is, or was, or whatever. I reach out for her identity and close my fingers around salty air, around campfire smoke and nothing substantial. It's getting dark. 

* * * 

"…and they were never seen again. And that's why it's haunted now." 

I'm walking to my car when I hear two girls talking in hushed tones. Something about the way they sound stops me, and I walk over to them, where they're sitting on a log. The girl who had been talking looks up at me first, her bright eyes flashing. Her friend glances up as well, quickly shifting and fluttering her eyelashes at me. I sit down on the sand in front of them. 

"Hullo," I say, and the first girl's eyes widen a little at my accent. What is it with Americans and British accents? I ignore it. "I couldn't help hearing your conversation. What were you talking about?" 

"The Witch's Hut," the flirty girl says, still trying to give me the best view of her chest. "It's over there, next to those blackberry bushes." She motions with her chin, and I look over to see a small, dark structure. The whole thing is about three times as big as an outhouse over all. I look back at the girls, raising an eyebrow. 

"It's haunted," the first girl breathes. "We've been coming here for years, and we can never find a way into it." 

"What makes you think it's haunted?" 

"I just…feel it," she blushes. "The island is full of haunted things. And that one, that's not the strongest but it's got something weird about it. Like…something left over." She starts blushing again. "I know that sounds insane." 

"On the contrary," I tell her. "I find it very interesting. How does one go about reserving a spot here?" 

* * * 

The next night, with some help from my hotel managing friend, I am setting up a tent within view of the house. The girls I met yesterday have been flitting about the camp site, giving me sight seeing advice, asking about England, showing me how to climb around on the rocks and explore little caves they've found. I've nothing better to do, so I let them lead me around. When they disappear with their families for a few hours I take the opportunity to sit in what I'm beginning to think of as Arienette's spot, gazing out at the water. 

A long way off there is a pod of whales. Orcas, someone near me says. They come every year, which is how the island got its name. Killer whales, some people still call them. An endangered species almost. I watch them for as long as they are in view. 

My real job here starts after dark. In my tent, I lay awake, steeling myself for whatever may happen. Then, wrapped in a heavy jumper, I apparate into the so-called Witch's Hut. 

To start off with, there are no witches. The girls would be very disappointed. It's just a dark, empty shack that looks like it was used for storage a few years before time began, and now it's overrun with spider webs and mold. I wrinkle my noise and flick my wand. "Lumos." 

The shack is a little more interesting when it's well lit. For one thing, there's a small area in the middle that looks like a fire pit. The charred wood and ashes have been cold for a very, very long time, but someone was here. I do a brief search, unsure of what I'm hoping for. Another cryptic letter maybe, or a photograph or a body. There's nothing. Just the long dead fire and the feeling that I'm as close as I'll get tonight. 

"Where are you?" I whisper. "And who are you?" But I'm not sure if I'm talking to Snape or Arienette.   


II. 

I move myself back into the hotel the next day, to the sorrow of my two little fan girls. There's nothing I can do out here in the wilderness and, while I would under normal circumstances be tempted to stay, there's something about the air in this camp sight that just rips away my breath. 

Thus I am left with no significant clues. I've been to the camp sight they stayed at; I've seen her seat and what may or may not have been a midnight rendezvous. I'm stuck. There's nothing I can find here, but there's nothing I can find anywhere else either. 

I spend the next two days searching beaches and the town. I drive out to the various tourist locations, hoping for a feel of them, for a sense that they've been here and left something behind. I find nothing. The town is crowded with life; there's a marina and ice cream and bookstores and a million things to do and see, but none of them are Snape. 

The beaches are a little bit more useful. They yield just as little material evidence, but there are times I can catch the scent of him on the wind, the magical imprint of his existence on the world around him, or a fading trace of glamour. I have to wonder if I'm not making it up. 

It's Sunday when I pack my car back up and get ready to leave. The ferry, cursed boat, won't be round till five in the afternoon, so I decide to visit one more beach. I drive my car out to Cattle Point, driving between long grasses, under grey blue sky, past farms and a light house until I reach the ruins of what I believe must have been an early fort of kind. There are thistles growing all round, and a steep path down to the beach. It almost isn't worth it, but I feel a hint of magic here, and I want to follow it. 

I climb down the path to the rocky beach bellow. The waves are beating against a natural rock wall, and a ways off there is a long line of dark rock outcroppings where the gravel of the beach ends. I make my way towards it, the sense of magic growing as I go. 

On one side of me is the ocean, a line of seaweed and kelp it's driven onto the shore marking where it can reach at high tide, and the gravel turns to sand nearer to the water. On my other side is a collection of driftwood and logs pushed up in storms. There are a few crumbling log forts that some idiot child must have made. I shake my head and continue walking, my feet crunching over the ground. 

The dark stone ground is covered in seaweed and tide pools when I reach it. Barnacles and hermit crabs, even some starfish, it is a treasure trove of aquatic life. There's a congregation of vultures further along, and I make my way towards them, wondering what they're up to. I have a sinking feeling as I approach, their dark feathered bodies hiding their meal from my sight. I'm up wind of it, so I don't smell it, but they smell me, and the birds take to the skies, their dark wings circling until they land on the cliff above me and watch with reproachful eyes. 

I take a few steps closer, smelling the sweetly disgusting scent of rotting flesh. Blood and bones and broken mottled fur. It's a baby seal, and I cover my mouth with my hand before moving on, incredibly relieved. 

The throb of magic is getting stronger. Snape is here; I can feel him. I can almost fucking taste him. So I let myself be drawn along by this magical thread, over slippery rocks and barnacles, until I feel sand under my feet, and look up to find a steep sandy path leading to the light house I passed earlier. 

I'm dizzy with the feel of enchantment as I get nearer to the building. Its windows are boarded with cardboard; broken glass lines the edges of its stone base. Below me I can see the ocean foaming against the rocks, a few seals surfacing here and there. I step up the structure and lay one hand on its side. The dizzy feel of magic is overpowering, and I step back, nearly losing my balance. I have to get inside. 

* * * 

There are times I really love being a wizard. Apparating is one of them. It isn't that you just vanish and reappear. Your molecules have to realign themselves, scramble and unscramble themselves to get you through solid rock. There is a moment, though it's so short you barely notice, when you are not yourself. Your DNA is not your own. Your atoms could run away from you then. And it's the greatest danger off all, because if you can't recall your body and make it take shape again, you'll end up splinched, and half of you will be in another room. 

I realign my molecules on the inside of the small lighthouse. It's pitch black, and I whisper the words to light the room. Small. It's small and cold and damp, with spider webs and broken glass. A narrow flight of stairs leads to the top of the lighthouse and the beacon. I begin my slow climb. 

I'm at the top step when something knocks me off my feet. That growing sense of magic concentrates itself into a force, rushes past me in a wave of darkness blacking out the sun and a sound like howling. Stones and broken glass; I'm going to die. I'm going to hit the floor below me and crack my head open and die. 

But I don't. Something is there, and it catches me. The darkness at the top of the stairs is still raging, still howling and whipping itself around like a living shroud. But whatever has caught me is dragging me closer into a firm embrace, one arm wrapped protectively around my chest as the other points a wand and sends a shower of sparks flying towards the creature up above. It shrieks its fury down at us, and I'm enveloped in dark, my eyes sliding shut before I can ever see the face of my saviour. 

* * * 

I wake up in the sunlight. 

No. That's not right. 

I wake up in a bedroom. There's sunlight spilling through the windows, a kind of yellow glow staining the whole room golden. I feel like all my bones have been taken out, polished with acid, and then reset inside of my skin. I groan, closing my eyes again. 

There's a rustle near my side and then a low, familiar voice. "Harry? Are you hurt?" 

I almost chuckle at the words. They're so familiar. And in that voice I'd almost think I was still dreaming. I open my eyes and look straight into a velvet black pair directly above me. The face is all wrong, too soft and too young, and the hair looks clean and smooth. The deep lines and creases are gone, clear white skin and a full lower lip in their place. 

And then I start freaking out. 

"Holy fuck!" I sit bolt upright, ignoring the throb in my head. His hands push back on my shoulders, trying to get me to lie down. I struggle. "Don't touch me! Don't fucking touch me!" I look about frantically. Where the hell is my wand? 

"Calm down, calm down," Snape's voice sounds strange. He sounds…patient. Like he's soothing a skittish horse. That is so stupid I start panicking all over again, clawing at him until he grabs both my wrists in one hand and slams them onto the pillows above my head. My shoulders hit the mattress with a thud. 

"I said calm down, Potter." 

I glare up at him, my breathing ragged. He glares right back. "Get the hell off of me," I growl. "I swear to Merlin Snape, I will hurt you so terribly if you don't…" 

"How are you going to do that without your wand?" He smirks. I blink. The effect of his facial theatrics is rather different now that he looks like this. "You never listened to me when I stressed the extreme importance of alternative forms of protection." 

"Like tearing Muggles apart with your hands?" I grimace and flex, trying to get away. "What the hell have you done to your face?" 

This is, perhaps, not the most relevant of questions, but I'm certainly curious about it and, light headed as I am, it just sort of pops out. Snape smiles. "Noticed that, did you? I'll let you in on a little secret; all the really famous wizards use a glamour." 

So he's purposely created the illusion of youth around himself. "Why?" 

"I suppose it makes them feel like they're holding everyone's attention that much better." 

"Fuck you," I hiss. He's being his old self, so supremely difficult. 

"Is that any way to talk to me after I've just saved your life?" He sniffs haughtily. "I go to all the trouble of following you on your little crusade to get yourself killed and this is my thanks. Well, I suppose it's to be expected. It really was silly of me to think that you'd grown some sense of courtesy in the past five years." 

I've given up fighting him by now, and I'm just glaring. "I'm not playing this game with you," I tell him. "I'm not going to give you that satisfaction." 

"Oh, but you already have." He releases me and stands, looking down. It suddenly becomes extremely important to keep him in this room. 

"Who is Arienette?" 

He narrows his eyes and flashes me a frown. "That's none of your business." 

"I don't care what my business is; I want to know! Did you kill her? Was she your lover? What? Where is she?" I can feel myself getting hysterical, but I don't really care and I couldn't fight it if I did. He's got me pinned with that intense stare again, but his eyes betray nothing. That part of him, at least, is not young. 

"You were sent by God to punish me," he finally says. 

I laugh. "There is no God, and you punish yourself." 

"In that case I may assume you are not being sent after me like a demented avenging angel?" He raises an eyebrow with practiced ease. "Go back to London Harry. Go home and forget about this, and move on." 

"Are you saying this out of the goodness of your heart," I ask, "or because you're scared I'll catch you?" 

His face is only inches away before I can even blink. And now I can definitely see more than a flicker of emotion. Anger. If nothing else, I have always been able to make him angry. I force myself to smirk, as he pulls away. "You're scared," I challenge him. 

"Go back to sleep," he suggests, and I feel my eyelids dropping with the weight of exhaustion. Damn him, I think, and then I'm asleep again.   


III. 

I wake up alone after sundown, with a crisp white envelope on the bedside table by my glasses and wand. The sheets are drawn up to my neck, carefully tucked around me. It feels weird, waking up without an alarm clock, without the sound of the radio. I've been missing it, I realize, the routine and regularity of it. This is just so like Snape; that he can come into my life five years too late and ruin everything again. 

Well that's just fine. I push the covers off and reach for my glasses. I reassure myself with the weight of my wand in my hand, and then reach for the letter, knowing I'll regret it. 

"Dear Harry," I read. "You always ask the wrong questions. What have I done to my face? Who is Arienette? These things cannot possibly be of any importance to you. You are a very troubled young man, and I suggest you seek the light of God. He's just worked wonders in my life. His forgiving presence can be a reminder of my own imperfection and my own inherent value, both at once. It is comforting, to turn back to how this all began and reflect upon the light that moves in all our lives. I do hope you'll consider this. 

"I must thank you as well, for looking after Galatea for me. I had meant to return for her, but she seems quite attached to you and I would hate to disrupt that. She bonds difficultly, but then, so many creatures do. How easily do you bond, Harry Potter? How much love does it take? 

"I suggest you return to London and close this case. Try to think back to when you were most at peace, and find the Lord's presence in your happiness. Love, Severus." 

Flabbergasted, close the letter and stare blankly into the dark. 

* * * 

London is darker now, and my flat is colder. All the scalding coffee in the world cannot warm me, and the radio wakes me each morning at half past six. Routines. I cannot live without my routines. 

It's been a week. I returned and wrote my report on the mission before returning to the paperwork. Snape's presence is curled in the back of my mind, twined with something much more potent, something that remains a chilling shriek on the edges of my dreams at night. That thing at the top of the stairs, proving that some things are haunted. 

And of course, I went right to it, jumped right in without caution, like always. And, as always, he was there to save me. Should I count how many times I'd have died without him? I don't believe I can count that high. 

I can almost hear his voice. 

"Mister Potter, how perfectly typical of you to rush in head first and endanger yourself yet again." 

"Mister Potter, can we please go one day without my having to save your life?" 

"Dear Harry, you always ask the wrong questions." 

What are the right questions? What would I ask if I had him here now? Why did you save me? Why did you always save me? Why were you following me? Why did you do it, any of it? I would ask him why, not what or who. But I'm in danger of letting this become too personal, and while Abernathy may assure me that it's quite all right to be so dedicated to my work, this obsession exceeds a healthy work ethic. 

I told him that I have no clues. That I have no answers. That we might as well put this whole thing aside until we receive new information. I lied. 

I do a lot of thinking at night, when I can't fall asleep, and I can never fall asleep. I think about all sorts of things, like what happens when we die or whether plants can feel pain. I think about what I'd hoped to do with my life when I was ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. I think about Snape, and all his damned letters. 

And that's the thing. Snape's last letter makes no sense if I take it at face value. Snape may have changed, but I sincerely doubt that he's found a higher purpose through Jesus. Even if he has, he would never urge someone to follow his example. So what is it he's trying to tell me? 

Long nights I lie awake, staring at where the ceiling would be if I could see through the darkness. And that's just it, isn't it? Snape wants me to see the light. Go back to beginning, he says. Look back to how it all began. And where was I the happiest? All signs, I think, point to Hogwarts. 

Who is Snape's God then? Who is it he is mockingly referring to? A forgiving power bent on reminding him not only of his own worth, but of his own short comings. Dumbledore, of course. So Snape wants me at Hogwarts, but beyond that I know nothing. And I am not prepared to waltz into Hogwarts after all these years and face an enemy like Snape. So I tell Abernathy I am, in essence, clueless. 

Or I do until the tests on the body come back. 

The body found in Snape's cellar was originally assumed to be a hapless Muggle. However, inquisitions around the town proved that no one had gone missing. The body had been sent to a Wizarding laboratory to be identified. And one morning, while I'm trying to drown myself in coffee, Abernathy dumps the results on my desk. Dudley Dursley died of blood loss, aged twenty-two. 

Funny how you can't recognise someone without skin. 

Don't get me wrong; I don't care that the little shit is dead. He and I haven't spoken since I graduated and moved out. I'd just sort of forgotten him, I suppose, as much as I could forget anyone like Dudley. But I understand Snape's meaning. This is a threat, plain and simple. It doesn't matter that I don't care about the corpulent corpse, because it's someone who should be close to me. It's family. And in the future it might be someone I'm less ready to surrender.   


* * * 

"Assistant Director Abernathy?" I knock on his door and wait less patiently than I'd like to admit to. He opens the door magically a few seconds later and calls me in. 

"Harry, my boy! It's so good to see you. Please, have a seat." I sit across from him, pretending to smile. "So, what can I do for you today?" 

"I think I may have found a clue in Snape's last letter to me, sir," I tell him. 

"Ken, please call me Ken." His smile is singularly irritating. "What's this about a clue?" 

"You see si-Ken, I was thinking about what Snape could mean with his religious psychobabble. He's not exactly religiously devout, you know. And I believe he wants me to go to Hogwarts." 

Abernathy steeples his fingers and looks like he's concentrating very hard on this information. "Interesting. Very interesting. Hogwarts you say? Well, I suppose the only thing for it is for you to go then." 

"Sir, this could very well be a trap," I remind him. "Snape is a dangerous criminal. Do you think it wise to simply meet his veiled requests head on?" 

"Harry, this agency is not about hiding and cowardice. You of all people should know that. It is our duty to be the Wizarding community's first line of defense." 

"To rush in head first and without fear," I murmur. 

"Exactly!" He claps. "That's it exactly Harry." 

I pause. "May I request that Aurors be sent to protect Hogwarts while I investigate? For the students' safety." 

"Of course, of course. I'll get some people from the higher divisions on it." He beams at me. "You're turning into such a little private investigator. A regular Sherlock Foams." 

"Holmes," I correct. 

"Whatever. Muggle thing. Never cared much for it," he rambles on, standing and shaking my hand vigorously as he ushers me from his office. "Now go out there and get him!" 

* * * 

Galatea and I take the train to Hogwarts. We're alone, but the trains still run. Or maybe they only run for me. I don't care. 

Seek the Lord's presence in my happiness, Snape had commanded. Dumbledore's presence in my childhood at Hogwarts then. I feel that I should expect something awful, but I don't know why. Dumbledore saved my life. He took care of me, watched out for me, offered me understanding and kindness in a world where I had nothing and no one. 

I haven't seen him in four years. After the war we kept in touch for a short while, during the reconstruction. Then things just sort of got in the way. I was busy with my new job, constantly on missions, constantly battling evil. And after that, after I joined the homicide units, well, it just felt too strange to talk to him again. 

As I step off the train, my suitcase in one hand and Galatea in the other, I see Hagrid. He's gotten older; his shaggy hair not quite so dark as I remember. "Hullo Harry," he greets me gruffly, enveloping me in a quick hug. "I haven't seen you since you was seventeen!" 

"Hello Hagrid," I smile up at him. "How's everything up at the castle? Did the Aurors arrive?" 

"Eh…they're here all right," he scratches his head. "Things aren't exactly wonderful up there, if you get my meaning." I stare at him blankly as he shrugs. "You'll understand when we get there. Come on then, let me give you a hand." 

As he takes my suitcase Galatea hisses fiercely at him. There's a coach waiting for us, drawn by something other than horses. There's a slight disruption of air, and then we're off, toward Hogwarts and whatever puzzle it is Snape has set up for me to work out now. 

I'm not looking forward to it.   
  
  



	3. A Higher Up Than Heaven and a Harder Dow...

  
Lachrymose Part Three   
A Higher Up Than Heaven and a Harder Down Than Stone   


I. 

McGonagall meets me in the great hall. At first I'm surprised that Dumbledore hasn't come to greet me, but she explains quickly that the headmaster has been slightly ill and asked that she come to welcome me and show me to my rooms. She thanks me curtly for the added protection and asks how long this will all be necessary. I sense a distance to her that was never there before. She's holding parts of herself back, and it's wearing her down. Frazzled is the word to describe her, I think. 

"We're hoping to capture Snape soon," I say, noting how she flinches at the sound of his name. "The Aurors are just a precaution, and I have every hope that he will be caught and taken in before the week is out." If we're to conduct ourselves with formal lies she'll find that I am well trained. "Thank you for your hospitality in complying with the Ministry's wishes. I hope that I will be able to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore at some point?" 

She pales. "I'm afraid that's not possible Mister Potter. The Headmaster is quite under the weather and will not be able to meet with you." 

"I see…well, if he feels any better, please call for me at once. It is imperative that I meet with him as early as possible." 

Our conversation is interrupted as Sirius comes skidding into the room, a grin lighting up his face as he sees me. I'm in his arms in a second, smiling awkwardly against his warm shoulder. Sirius and I haven't had the opportunity to see much of each other in the past few years, which is a nice way of saying we've been too busy to do more than send a few letters now and then. I hadn't realized I missed him so much. 

"Harry! Wow! You look great!" He ruffles my hair as if I'm still a child, and I almost wish I were, if I could have him as my dad. I imagine he would be the sort of parent other kids would want to have. "How've you been?" 

"Wonderful," I lie, smiling. "How about you?" 

"Amazing!" He gives me another squeeze. 

McGonagall is smiling tightly at us. "Sirius, why don't you show Harry his rooms? I'm sure he's tired after the ride here and would like to get some rest before beginning work." 

Sirius nods. "You're not far from Remus and I. I'll take you there now. Did the house elves get everything?" 

"Yes," I tell him, remembering how incredibly nonplussed Galatea had been when I entrusted her into Dobby's dubious care. I grin. "Lead the way." 

* * * 

As Sirius opens the door my breath catches in my throat. There's a small fire, because castles are cold, no matter what the weather is like outside, and two armchairs facing one another, both upholstered in red velvet. There's a red velvet sofa, a bookshelf, a few tapestries…and it's so completely Hogwarts that it takes my breath away. I hadn't realized until this moment how good it had always felt, being here. 

"You got one of the nice rooms," Sirius says, smiling. "They've got Moony and I lodging in the draftiest room in the entire castle, bar none." 

Galatea is sitting by the fire, but she jumps up at my arrival and winds herself about my feet, meowing. I bend over and pick her up. "I didn't know you and Professor Lupin were…" 

"Lovers?" I stare. I was going to say 'living together' but that's what I'd meant, so I nod. "We're not. Not really anyway. What we are…I don't think it's really…I mean, it's purely platonic." He runs a hand through his dark hair and smiles uncertainly at me. "Remus is a very strong Catholic, so we don't do anything that might offend his morals." He winks at me, trying to look flippant. 

"But you live together." 

"Pretty fucked up, isn't it?" He flashes me a smile, and I'm starting to wonder if that's the only expression he owns. Gallant grin; perfected by Sirius Black. I try to smile back. 

"Well, I'll just let you get settled then," he says, moving toward the door. "Remus and I are just three doors down to the left if you need anything or want to chat. I know he'd love to see you. We've both missed you terribly." And then he's gone, the imprint of his artificial merriment hanging lachrymosely over the room. 

* * * 

The rest of my day is spent touring the grounds with Sirius and Remus, catching up with old friends, and checking in every few hours with the Aurors I've had placed around the castle. No one has seen anything unusual. I eat at the head table at dinner, talking with Sirius over recent Quidditch events, and laughing as he and Remus recount absolute horror stories about teaching. It feels strange to be on this end of things, and it makes me wonder what exactly Snape must have felt, knowing his every move was watched by students, reported in hallways gossiped about in dorm rooms. What must it have been like to be a miniature celebrity like that, where your every action is picked up on and discussed? I shiver, realising I really don't have to imagine. Maybe we had more in common than I realised. 

Dumbledore, I notice, is conspicuously lacking from dinner. His seat remains empty, and I get the feeling it has for some time. 

After dinner Sirius and Remus invite me back to their rooms for a chat before bed. We sit before the fire, me in an armchair, them on the couch, Remus reclining in Sirius' arms, the picture of domestic bliss if I didn't know better. 

"How's work coming along Harry," Remus asks me, snuggling back into my godfather's embrace. "Not up to anything too dangerous are you?" 

"I'm not involved in dark magic anymore. I'm on the homicide unit, and this case is the most dangerous I've had in a while." 

He nods. "Snape has always been dangerous." Sirius' eyes darken at Remus' words, and he tightens his hold on the man's thin body. "You'll catch him though, I've every confidence." 

"Let's talk about something pleasant," Sirius beams. "Found any special someone, Harry?" 

"No," I say. "I'm too busy for that. Ron and Seamus and I used to go clubbing now and then, but not lately." 

"Oh well, you're still so young," Remus smiles warmly at me. "How are Ron and Seamus? Still the same as always?" 

"Not quite," I tell him. Who among us is the same as always? Who among us lived through that war, the private war here at Hogwarts before the Ministry caught on and joined in the fight, one day before Voldemort collapsed, and remained unchanged by it? The adults who lived through it already had their own scars, from battles long since passed, too broken to scar a second time. But us, we were easy black boards for destruction. 

"Harry, why don't you come back to Hogwarts?" Sirius grins hopefully at me. "You seem absolutely miserable being an Auror, and we could use a new flying coach." 

I force a smile. "It sounds nice Sirius, but I'm really very happy with what I do. We're just all under a lot of stress right now I suppose, but it'll wear off soon enough. This whole matter will be in the past before too long." 

There's a comfortable moment of silence, with us all sitting there, forcing our smiles, before Remus remarks, "Oh my, would you look at the time? It's almost ten thirty and I have an early class tomorrow." He stands, extracting himself from Sirius like he's cutting parts of himself off with a paring knife. "It was so good talking to you Harry. I hope you stay for a very long time," he smiles and moves towards the bedroom. 

Sirius stands as well, clapping me on the back with that grin still painted on his face. "Remus is doing really well, don't you think?" 

"He seems quite well," I answer. "Who's been making the, er…" 

"Oh, we've got a new potions master. Great woman, absolutely the nicest person you can imagine. The exact opposite of Snape," he laughs. "She's been doing some research and there've been vast improvements in the potion. I think it's really helping Remus. He's so happy lately," Sirius sighs. 

"Yes," I agree, even though I've no idea what I'm talking about. "That's wonderful." 

"I'll see you tomorrow? Great. Sleep well," Sirius says, opening the door for me. As the door shuts again I can see him walking after Remus, his broad shoulders slumping for just a moment before he picks himself up again. And a part of me wants to reach out and bring him back, wants to fix everything in his fucked up life for him, and take off that plastic mask he's hiding behind. How much must he feel? How much must be hidden behind that perfect shining smile? Or has it hidden so long it's completely gone now? 

In my mind, for the rest of his life, I know at this moment, he will forever walk after Remus. 

* * * 

My rooms feel too big. I want to talk to Dumbledore, and I want to talk to him now. It feel just like old times as I got to my luggage, removing those items I prized above all else in my youth; my invisibility cloak and the Marauder's Map. Dumbledore's dot shows up in his personal rooms, just off his office. That seems usual. 

I put the cloak on hurriedly and open the door, glancing both ways before I step into the hall and begin walking. I pass Sirius and Remus' room, pause for a second. There's no noise from within, but I don't know what I was expecting. I linger a moment before moving on. 

The halls are familiar; the shifting staircases like something painfully recognised. Being here feels like having a piece of myself restored. Maybe I should think about Sirius' suggestion that I stay. I'll mention it to Dumbledore. I used to be so happy here; maybe after this case I can return, ever the prodigal son. 

The gargoyle at the base of Dumbledore's staircase proves an obstacle. I begin listing candies in a low voice and it smirks, unresponsive. Somewhere between lemon drops and chocolate frogs I must hit the right word though, or else the gargoyle just has pity on me, for the door is opened to me at last. And the winding stairwell waits before me, with the one person who could possibly solve all these riddles just a few minutes away.   


II. 

"Headmaster?" The door opens under the slight bit of pressure I exert, and I peek my head round to look into his office, as cluttered with bric-a-brac and magical nonsense as it ever was in the past. It seems even messier now, if possible. Candy wrappers and broken tea cups lie here and there, like the remains of a very good childhood. 

"Professor Dumbledore?" I can't see him, and there's no answer, but I do detect a slight murmuring further in the room. Steeling myself, I walk forward. "I know you're ill, sir, but I need to talk to you. It's about Snape." 

Suddenly, the room is illuminated with bright colored lights like a circus. I wince as my eyes adjust to it, and look up, shading my eyes, to see Dumbledore, his face all twisted with a mad grin, standing right across from me in a tattered velvet robe. His eyes twinkle crazily, like the lights around the room, and, as I watch, he starts to laugh. 

"Dear Christ," I murmur, dropping my hand. He's completely mad. "Oh, sir, what's happened to you?" 

"Harry, Harry my boy!" He chortles in a high and cracking voice. It feels like being electrocuted to listen to him. "Do sit down! Do sit down! Could I offer you some candy? Tea? No? Well then! How's life been treating you, my dear boy?" 

I sit gingerly on the edge of a chair, ready to bolt at any minute. "Life is fine…" I try. "How are things with you?" 

"Oh, quite lovely! I wake up every morning just after six and spend the day steeped in paper work." He grabs a handful of candy wrappers and throws them towards me. "I make important decisions. I always have! It's quite the easiest job in the world, controlling the universe." 

I can feel myself shrinking away from this sugar fed mad man. His eyes blink and sparkle like orbs of malice in his wrinkled face. "So glad you've come home. They always do come back. Always do forgive me in the end." 

"Forgive you for what?" I ask, almost dreading the answer. 

"Oh all the things I chose for them to be of course! You almost didn't come back, but Professor Snape saw to it you would," he muttered. "Disobeying orders, so very unlike him." 

My brain screams at me to ask about Snape, his name dangling between us like a baited hook, but there's a voice in my head saying, "You never ask the right questions." 

"What do you mean I almost didn't come back? Come back to the school? Come back when?" 

Dumbledore grins. "Why, from your last mission. It never happened, of course. Snape saw to that. Oh, but it would have been marvelous. Arabella had it all planned out, I could tell. She was just about to make her move, and I'd been coaxing her on all year, making her feel just so comfortable, just so trusted. They always fall for that." 

My breath escapes in the hiss of one word. "What?" 

"Oh, they all believed they were clever. Quirrell and Crouch. They all thought they were so very tricky. As if I didn't know all along, hand pick them for the task of training you. And she was to be the last one ever…" 

"Harry!" I whirl around, staring into McGonagall's frightened eyes. I jump up to the sound of Dumbledore's laughter. 

"Professor McGonagall! I…I…" 

"Sit down Harry," she looks heartbroken. "You've a right to this information. But not like this! Oh Merlin, not like this." She turns her eyes on Dumbledore and mutters few words. He rises at what must have been her command and, still chuckling, exits into an adjoining room. She shakes her head, strands of hair falling out of that tight bun. 

"If I may ask," I begin. "What the hell is going on?" 

She sighs. "You've no doubt noticed that the Headmaster has gone mad?" 

"Yes, that was a rather difficult detail to miss," I snap. I don't sound like myself. 

"The pressure in the last days of the war…it touched so many of us! He took it the hardest though, when Snape…and he seemed to be holding up alright. I guess he just got too old for himself," she sighs. "One morning I came up to find him and he was just as you saw him. Every bit a lunatic." 

"Fascinating. Why did he say those things? About me? That was more than madness." 

"Yes," she nods. "But I wish it wasn't. 

"Dumbledore confided in me early in your life his intent to shape you. He has always been a masterful manipulator. He can…could…bend people to his whim, not through magic, but through conditioning, through what Muggle's call psychology. His first step was leaving you with those Muggle relations of yours. I told him from the start I was against it, but that just made him more determined. He wanted you to know what it was to overcome adversity," she sneers. "He wanted you to understand the kind of prejudice the world was riddled with, and he wanted you to understand from day one. So it was off to the Muggles with you, and there was nothing I could say to change his mind. 

"After that everything was a lesson. Every year was another lesson. Every fucking day was a lesson!" I wince. I've never heard her swear, and her voice shakes like it's about to break or like she's never talked before. "Oh he thought it was the cleverest thing in the world. He'd come up here chuckling and clucking his tongue and telling me about his plans. I was the only one he told, the only one he'd trust with it." 

"What about Snape?" I ask, on impulse. "He trusted Snape." 

"Trusted him, yes, that's what got him in the end. He'd never been betrayed before. He always knew which side everyone was on, and if they lashed out at him after pretending to be on his side, he'd known all along and it was all according to plan. But Snape got him good. Snape, he trusted. And Snape trusted him. Dumbledore couldn't tell Snape, because Snape wouldn't have stood for it. He knew what it was to be used and bent into impossible poses, and he would have put a stop to it. I should have put a stop to it." 

I'm overcome with the urge to comfort her, but maybe this is just another manipulation. She looks so old. "What about Arabella Figg then? What was that about?" 

"She was working for Voldemort. She hadn't been made a Death Eater yet, so there were no marks on her, but she was sent in to find you. Find you and…" She covers her mouth and her next words are too muffled to hear. They sound like a prayer or a hex, and she removed her hand slowly. "I told Dumbledore, I told him he couldn't. I said it wouldn't be right, that you had a right to be here, and it was his duty to keep the children safe. That was his job, not controlling the whole world. But the ministry…they wouldn't declare war. If they joined we could crush Voldemort in a day, but they didn't see a reason to join yet. 

"So Dumbledore had it all planned out. Figg was going to use a trap, kidnap a few students and wait until you came to save them. Then snap," she snapped her fingers. "She was more powerful than anyone you'd faced so far, and she was more cunning than Voldemort because she was unhampered by pride or showmanship. She'd have killed you all before you could raise your wands. 

"I stood against it. Oh, I tried so hard to make him change his mind but he…and I'd been in it too long to stop him now. He had it all set up. Everything. If you died, he said, the ministry would have to declare war. And with their power…he said it was your destiny to win the war in any way you could, and this was the only way. I didn't know how to stop him." She sobs. "I'm sorry." 

"He was going to have me killed?" 

She nods. "Yes," she whispers. "But the night Arabella Figg took those children was the same night Snape went crazy. He killed them, all of them, before anyone knew what was happening. And Dumbledore and I kept quiet about it. He was a murderer, after all. The children…and then that killing spree on the Muggles near where she had taken them. And the dark wizards..." She wrings her hands distractedly, as if she's kneading air. "They called him a monster, but I think he was saving your life. I think he trusted Dumbledore, and when he realised how betrayed he'd been, how betrayed you'd been, I think he just lost it." 

A heavy silence descends between us. There are crashing, banging noises from Dumbledore's room. "He's totally mad," she whispers. "We cover it up, for his sake. I run the school now, but he's still the headmaster. I just couldn't bare the thought of him wasting away in St. Mungo's, and Merlin knows what he might say to anyone there." 

I nod. We wouldn't want him spilling secrets, would we? "You're his jailor." 

"I'm his liberator as well," her eyes flash. "Now, if you don't mind, I think I'd like to get to bed. It's been a long day, and tomorrow probably won't prove much better." 

* * * 

I sneak back to my room, passing those familiar paintings and tracing my invisible footprints down the hallways of my childhood. Outside Sirius and Remus' door again, I pause, and this time I could swear there's a noise like someone crying from inside. A screaming sort of, shrieking kind of, heart broken sound that drives me on, kills my curiosity. I've had enough for one night.   


III. 

The week proceeds without further success. I drift through the halls aimlessly, feeling betrayed and strange. The Aurors I've had stationed about the school report nothing out of the ordinary. Classes proceed as usual, and the school, suddenly just another bitter location, has lost all mystery for me. There are no answers here. None I want to hear. 

It is Friday when I find myself out on the Quidditch pitch, alone. The sky is a fierce grey, the signal of a coming storm. Spring storms for summer flowers. I sigh and wrap my arms around myself. I almost miss the slender figure making its way towards me. 

"Hello Remus," I say without looking at him. "Out for a walk?" 

"I was looking for you, actually," he says, standing beside me and following the path of my eyes out into the sky. "You seem troubled." 

"So do you," I tell him, because I don't want to have this conversation. "Something on your mind?" 

"I'm worried about you," he continues, as if he hasn't heard me. "You walk about like you're still asleep. You drink about twenty cups of coffee a day. You treat Sirius and I as if we're ghosts. What on earth is wrong with you?" 

"I'm sorry," I say. "I just…feel like I'm in the wrong place." 

"Then where should you be?" 

"I don't know. I came here looking for Snape, but I've found out more than suits me. I want…I need to find him. Talk to him. Somehow." I shiver. "I don't know what's happening to me." 

"You're growing up," he replies calmly. 

I almost laugh. "I thought I'd finished that by now." 

"No one really ever does," he shrugs. "I know I haven't. I still don't know what I want out of life. Or else…" he shakes his head and smiles at me. "I don't think we ever figure everything out. I think we have to live with what we get, and accept the things that we never understand." 

This time I do laugh, because the image of Remus as this wise little Buddha of a werewolf is too much. "That's very Zen," I snicker. 

He shrugs again, and looks back toward the castle. "I'm going in now, but if you'd like to join Sirius and I for tea later I know we'd both love to have you." 

"Thanks," I grin. "I'll keep it in mind." 

* * * 

Curled up in one of the armchairs in my room, I read Snape's last letter for the millionth time. I've discovered a lot about myself, which sucks, and I've filled in a motive for what started his crimes, sort of, but I still haven't found him. Of course, it's completely likely that he never meant for me to find him, that he only wanted to dangle himself before my eyes and watch me learn all the crushing truths of my life. 

And that brings up another point. He must be watching me. How else would he know everything he claims to? How else could he have saved my life on Orcas Island, or known I'd kept Galatea, who is curled in a tight ball in front of the fire as if she belongs there and will never move again? He's been watching me since I started this case, maybe even a little before. 

It stands to reason, therefore, that he is still watching me. Somehow he's managed to outwit my Aurors. Well, that's no surprise. He's tricky, as everyone has conceded. I've hooked up a system with the Aurors though. One magic word is all it will take and, should I need them, they would be at my side. It took a lot of loopholes and magical trickery to get around the 'no apparition' rules, but we managed it. Some of the wards around the school are failing anyway, perhaps because of Dumbledore's madness, perhaps because the energy is just used up. Either way, there's no way I'm going to be stuck at Snape's mercy like I was last time. He may act like he's no threat to me, but I'm not about to fool myself that mocking charm is sincere. 

I have to make him interested in me again, I think, I have to draw his eye. He's watching, so I just need to force a reaction. The how is where this gets difficult. His letter should tell me! But I've gone through every sentence, every word, and I'm still stumped. 

The happiest place…where was I most at peace? My mind throws up images of Quidditch, of wizarding Chess in front of the fire, of Care of Magical Creatures and Halloween Feasts. I've searched these places, dismantled these events. They hold no clue. And, itching at the back of my mind is an image I've been trying hard to suppress. 

It wasn't the happiest moment of my life. It wasn't what brought me the greatest peace. But it was my last real moment of peace, I suppose, since it was followed by days filled with blood and pain and betrayal. So I go out on a limb, swallow my doubt, and break into the potions classroom after hours. 

It's about the same as I remember it. Dark, damp, clammy and gross. The new teacher must not be one for redecorating, anyway. My fingers brush across the jars and vials, seeking out memories I've been trying to forget. In my mind there's something crawling across the floor, there's damp fingers and cold snapping like tendons over bones. I step away from the shelves. 

"Hello, hello," I try, and get no answer. No matter. This was just a prelude. Leaving, I walk down the hall towards his room. Snape's room, or what was once Snape's room. I've been told it stands empty now, untouched, a tribute to a wanted man. The wards are down, and I push the door open and stand in the past. 

He's sitting in a high backed armchair, coolly gazing into the fire. "Shut the door," he remarks, "if you're coming in." 

The door clicks shut behind me, and I take a shaky step in. "What do you want?" 

"Did you talk to Dumbledore? Ah, I can tell that you did. Isn't he just remarkable? Heralded as one of the greatest wizards of ours times, and look at him now! Maybe all those good intentions are finally catching up with him. If you get my drift," he raises an eyebrow. Yeah, I think, I get it. 

"So here we are again," he smirks, his young, young, terribly young face shimmering in fire light as he stands up to face me, run one long finger down the curve of shadow on my cheek. And it feels like his nail is a knife. And it feels like I ought to just jump out of my skin. And it feels like all my dreams, because his lips are on mine and I'm sinking into a memory and a dream, and he's not quite the same as I thought he would be. 

Elegant is the way he kisses me. No tongue, no passion. We're like movie stars, I think, like actors. His mouth feels full and soft, gently sucking on my lower lip. He tastes like something sweet and clean. Everything about him is screaming that he's too young and too pretty. I just shove that into the back of my head and shove my hands into his (clean, soft) hair. 

When he breaks away from me I gasp, and catch myself. His hands are resting lightly on my shoulders, his full mouth a little open and his eyes heavy lidded. "You're not calling your Aurors," he points out. 

"You're not holding a wand," I reply. 

"I didn't need a wand for some of them," he says, and kisses my neck with slightly less elegance, slightly more passion. 

"Stop it," I push him away. "You're a murderer." 

"I know that," he says, and leans in for another kiss, breathing his words against my lips. "Which of us are you reminding?" 

"You caught me off my guard," I protest, still pushing at him. "You're not the same person. You're a murderer. This is not happening between us." 

His eyes go dark and [at?] the conviction of my tone. "We don't have to be enemies," he tells me as he steps back. "You can come with me. I'm leaving for real. I'm not going to keep following you around." 

"What kind of life would we have?" I laugh. "I'd clean the house while you went out and murdered us a nice big supper?" 

"I've never eaten my victims," he protests flippantly. "Well, maybe a bite or two…" He snaps his white teeth at me, and grins. "Come on Harry; you know you want to." 

"I hate you," I seethe. "I hate you for everything you've done. You ruined my life." 

"Ah, but I saved your life," he answers me, and then he's kissing me again and I don't have the strength to shrug him off. It might go on and on like that, but he pulls away, sadly, pressing a finger to my lips to silence me as he gives me a funny little half smile. "I'll see you again," he murmurs, "if you come to Godric's Hollow tonight at twelve," and then he's gone. I am, apparently, not the only one able to outsmart the school's crumbling defences.   


IV. 

At first it's just the feeling that I want to break something. Anything. My hands ache to throw, smash, hurt, destroy. I want to translate the chaos inside of me into something tangible, something anyone can see. I imagine it's the way Sirius feels all the time, but has hidden behind that cocksure grin of his. I feel like tearing out my hair. 

But instead I sit calmly, waiting, in Snape's sitting room where I've been since he blinked out nearly two hours ago. It's twelve minutes to midnight. 

This is the end between us, I know. Whatever happens, part of what we were will die. Either I'll go to him, and we'll leave together and never look back, and that hunter/prey relationship that started and reversed itself so very long ago will finally end; or else I'll stay here, and he'll leave, and whatever lingering emotions there are holding us in place will break and crumble. One way or another, this has to end. 

It's seven minutes till now, and I have to make my choice. Stay or go? I've been betrayed, but do I want to betray my past? Do I want to betray Sirius, and Remus, and McGonagall and even Dumbledore? Or Hermione, and the memory of her girlish good looks and the light of her smile? Do I want to walk away from all that? What would it give me? Revenge? Power? Love? 

So that's the clincher. What is it I'm feeling right now? Down, past all the anxiety and hurt and guilt and fear, what is it I feel? Is it love that's driven me here, so far back into my past that I can hardly see my way back out? Is it love that's put me through this test? And if so, love for whom? For the friends and family I don't keep in touch with? For the man that ripped away parts of my life in an attempt to save me from the people who cared too much? What is it that's brought me back here tonight? 

Two minutes to go. I make up my mind. Standing, I raise my wand, and, with incredible effort to see through the wards, apparate to Godric's Hollow.   
  



	4. Golden In The Mercy Of His Means

Lachrymose Part Four 

Golden in the Mercy of His Means 

AN: The lyrics are from Bright Eyes, a wonderful band I continually borrow from/rip off. For more on that try listening to Fevers and Mirrors, their latest CD. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. This will be the last part of Lachrymose, but there will probably be spin offs or a sequel at some point in the future. Thanks for reading, ~Armand 

I.   
He's standing in the middle of the clearing, arms wound tight around his chest, looking up at the sky. If he hears me, he doesn't make a sign of it. Instead, as I slowly approach him, he turns and lifts an eyebrow. "Packed a little light, didn't you?" 

"I don't imagine there's anything I need that I can't get later," I tell him, shivering a bit at the chill in the air. "Where are we going?" 

"Anywhere. I've been almost everywhere in the past five years." He gives a deep sigh. "Where do you want to go?" 

I feel like I've swallowed my tongue. I step forward, gulping, and lay a hand on his arm. "I want to go everywhere with you," I say, and he turns with a gentle half smile on his still startling face. I force myself to go on. "But I want to have a little talk first, before we go anywhere." 

"Harry," he groans. "Fine. For anyone but you, I would say no. But," his hand rises and traces the edge of my jaw lightly. "What do you need to know?" 

"Why did you save my life on Orcas Island?" 

"You were going to die. You always get yourself into trouble and I always get you back out. That's just the way it's always been." 

"But why? Why has it always been like that between us? You always acted like you hated me, and then you turn around and…and…" 

"Make love to you?" He raises an eyebrow. 

"Yes. And then you go on this mad bloody quest to save my life and disappear, and the next time I see you it's because you're saving me again. Why do you do that?" 

He sighs. "You never had anyone to look out for you. You had fans, and you had Dumbledore, but I knew first hand that you could only trust him so far. I thought, hell, if no one else is going to see to it that you live, I might as well do it myself. I owed your father, so I made sure you lived through your first year and called it even. But saving you is like an addiction. It's second nature to me now. There's just something about you, something broken and weak that begs to be cared for, begs to be saved. And if not me, then who? Maybe I like knowing I have that power in your life, that you wouldn't be standing here except that I willed it. Maybe I liked knowing that you, Harry Potter, needed me." He smiles. 

"Then why sleep with me? Did you want me all the time, or was it just spontaneous?" 

"Stress," he says, "makes a man do odd things. You'd grown up to be quite the catch, and I was in no condition to think rationally. Perhaps part of me wanted you all along, but I never realised it till that moment." 

"And now?" 

"Now, you're different. Whatever spark you had in you at seventeen is gone. You remind me of me, when I was your age." 

"You quite look my age, you know." 

"Believe me, it will make life much easier," he answers, and the hand that's been tracing my cheek makes a detour to outline my lips. "My turn, Harry. Why did you really come here tonight?" 

"To see you," I sigh, my eyes falling shut. "I had to see you, to know once and for all why I'd gone to all this trouble finding you in the first place." 

"And? What did you find?" 

"Love," I say, and my eyes flutter open. He's smiling down at me, that gorgeous, foreign flicker of emotion in his face that lights up the night around us as he leans in and kisses me. I'd like to say the world stops, but it doesn't, and I'd like to say the rustle in the grass and trees around us catches me by surprise, but I can't. 

"Petrificus totalus!" Snape freezes, lips still on mine. I let out a deep breath, feeling a teardrop make its way down my cheek, and open my eyes. "I'm sorry," I breathe against his mouth before moving away. 

The Aurors are moving in. "Good work Harry," one of them says, clapping me on the back. 

"Thanks Jim," I answer numbly, wiping at my face. "You better take him in." 

The group is closing in around him, wrapping him with magical binds and then taking the petrifying charm off him so he can walk, but only where they want him. His eyes meet mine, flashing once before the team of Aurors apparate away with him, and I'm left here alone. 

* * * 

It may seem odd, but I haven't been to Godric's Hollow since I was a baby. My parents died here. I almost died here. It's strangely peaceful. 

I'm sitting on the ground, thinking about that, when I hear someone in the trees and look up. I don't go for my wand. I just don't care right now. And, when Sirius steps out of the trees, he might as well be a monster for all the difference it makes to me. 

"Hey," he says, sitting down. 

"Hey," I answer. 

He's lost his grin and his usual swagger. Sitting beside me with starlight all wrapped in his hair, he looks like he knows what it means to be hurt. It makes me think about the crying behind his door, about how he follows after something that's always moving just out of his reach. It makes me think about myself. 

"You did the right thing," he says, at last. "But I know how you feel." 

"What do you know?" I ask, looking away from him. He doesn't understand this. 

"I know that closing a part of your life can be difficult, and that letting go of the past, even a bitter past, isn't always easy. I know that sometimes you choose to commit yourself to something even though it isn't perfect. You just have to be glad with what you get, Harry, and live with all that you've been given." 

I can feel the moonlight on us, like some pulsing living sea flower suspended in the sky. I don't want to go home. I don't want to go back to Hogwarts, back to London, back to anywhere. I wish I could just leave. I wish I could just forget about everything and get away from here, away from my routine, and live in a normal little house with a lovely garden and a colour television. But I feel so alone, just now, I know I'm going nowhere. 

"If you ever need anything," he says softly, " Remus and I are here for you." 

"Thank you," I manage, and we both look up at the stars, and try to forget the sacrifices we've made. 

* * * 

"You don't have to leave right away, Harry," McGonagall smiles warmly at me over breakfast. "Why don't you stay a few days? The case is finished now, and I know we'd all enjoy having you around a little while longer. We haven't seen much of you these past few years." 

"I'm sorry, Professor, but they may need me for the trial arrangements. I really should be there. And I do have to write a full report of what happened." I know right now that I'm not writing anything near a full report. What I hand in will be so carefully edited it will approach fiction. "Thank you for the offer though. I'll try to come by more often." No I won't. 

"We'll miss you Harry," Remus smiles. Sirius is sitting between us, and he smiles too, squeezes Remus' hand under the table where he thinks I can't see. "Perhaps you can come visit us during the summer?" 

"I'll see," I tell him. Really, the last thing I want is to be tangled up in Sirius and Remus' weird opposite-of-sex-life. Sirius seems to understand, because he smiles softly at me. "I'd better go get packed." 

Galatea and I apparate home. McGonagall seems a little regretful that the wards have disintegrated to such a point as to make apparation not only possible, but easy. I promise to send someone to check up on strengthening school security. After all, Hogwarts should always be seen as the safest place on earth, however much of a farce that may be. 

My flat seems smaller, somehow. I spend the day walking in and out of rooms, just for the sensation of leaving one place for another. Look at me, pretending to travel. I fear I'm becoming one of those pathetic twenty-somethings with no hope for romance who lives at home alone with a cat. Galatea, as if sensing my traitorous thoughts, meows and jumps into my path from the kitchen to the bedroom. 

I flick on the radio because I need to fill the air with some sort of noise. The song has a sort of country sounding twang to it, and the singer's voice is crackling, young and emotional. I sit down to listen. "But please return, return, to the person that you were, and I will do the same. Cause it's too hard to belong to someone who is gone. My compass spins; the wilderness remains." 

I'm enjoying the music, in a masochistic sort of way. I feel a bit like getting raging drunk and going to work hung over tomorrow morning. Gods, it's been ages since I was really, truly drunk! Maybe I can get alcohol poisoning and not have to go in tomorrow. 

"And he'll make war, old war, on who you were before, and he'll claim all that has spoiled in your heart," sings the radio, and I've just about decided to buy myself a six pack and commence becoming an alcoholic when the phone rings. 

"Harry? Oh good, you're home." 

"Hello Ron," I say, flicking off the radio. "What's going on?" 

"Snape is causing problems," he sighs. 

"Already? My but he is efficient." 

"Stop it, Harry. You sound just like him, and it gives me the creeps." There's a pause as he sighs again. "The whole place is in a fit. You'd better get down here." 

"What'd he do?" Curiosity is getting the best of me. I pour myself a cup of coffee and wait for the answer. 

"He's requesting that he not have a trial. He says he's pleading guilty to everything we want to charge him on and he doesn't want the right to a fair trial. He says it'll waste time and he's already admitted." 

"What?" I choke. "Why? He could get off on insanity, I'm sure of it! They'll have him exterminated for sure if he does this." 

"I know that. He probably knows that. Everyone knows that. That's the problem. Half the ministry is crying for his head on a plate, and the rest are complaining about what a mess it'll make if we execute a man without a trial, especially one acting as nutty as Snape." 

"What am I supposed to do about it?" 

There's a silence. Then, "Harry, you have to talk to him. He's agreed to take a dose of Veritaserum to prove he's sane and guilty, but he insists on speaking to you after he confesses. You've got to talk him into a regular trial or he'll fuck up the whole system." 

"That's probably his intention," I sigh. "I'll be over in a few minutes. And Ron?" 

"Yes?" 

"Why are you using the phone?" 

He laughs. "I'm at a bar. Abernathy went wild on the whole division and a bunch of us have fled in terror to get royally pissed." 

"Funny," I mutter. "That's just what I was about to do."   


II. 

"Harry, thank Merlin you're here! Snape is being a holy terror!" Abernathy leads me briskly into his office and slams the door. "I can't get him to see reason. Everyone is terrified of getting within killing distance of the man! The sooner we have him exterminated the better." 

My blood goes icy. "Sir," I say calmly. "Mister Snape is a very unbalanced man. Don't you think it possible that what he needs, more than extermination, is a long stay in St. Mungo's?" 

"That's really very sweet of you Harry, but you don't have to stick up for him. You're such a wonderful boy for always trying to see both sides of a thing, but some things have only one side, I'm afraid." 

"Well, then what do you need me for? If you're going to kill him, kill him. My job was just to bring him here." 

"Of course, I wish it were as easy as all that. But we do need to convince him to allow a trial, or the public will go absolutely mad." 

"Fine," I surrender. "I'll talk to him. Where is he?" 

* * * 

A heavy metal door slams shut behind me. Snape is sitting on the opposite side of a table, and I can tell from the uncomfortable straightness of his back that he's held there magically. His face is old, the way I remember it being before. Lines creasing the space between his eyebrows, and the imprints of a sneer etched into his mouth. It's the familiarity I was expecting all along, and it blows me away. 

"Ah, Harry," he sighs, wincing a little at his words. "Alone at last." 

"Not so flirty without your face are you?" I say, wearily and without a hint of bitterness as I slide into my chair and set my mug of coffee down between us. 

"No one ever is," he smirks. "Why, your cousin was quite the little tart until I…" His smirk widens. 

"That was pretty fucked up of you," I tell him and take a gulp of my coffee. 

"I thought you'd like it." 

"I don't appreciate violence." 

"And yet, here we are, and it won't be a week before they've had me…what's the word? Exterminated. Yes. Fascinating process they've come up with, without their Dementors to rely on. Really, the Wizarding world will do anything to pretend to themselves that they are not responsible for the deaths they cause," he smirks again. His expression is somehow very like Sirius' grin, and I shrug off the thought that the two of them might get along. That's completely idiotic. 

"You could get out of this," I remind him. "Just tell them you're insane. I'll back you up. I mean, hell, I've known you most of my life and I think you're completely nuts. What other explanation could there be for your actions than that you are insane? They'll buy it; they'll have to. And you won't have to…" I bite my lower lip, look across at him plaintively, trying to make him understand this. "You could get away with murder, if I backed you up." 

"Why would you want to help me, after what I did to you? You've pointed out again and again how I fucked up your perfect little life," he sneers. "I'm not going to tell them I'm crazy. You know that." 

No, of course he won't. His so-called dignity won't allow him. He may be willing to do his own dirty work, to drag himself through mud and slime, but he won't stand up and publicly denounce himself in order to achieve something so petty as saving his own life. 

"You've got the whole place in a whirl," I say after a long silence. "Why not just have a trial?" 

"It would be a waste of time," he says carelessly. "They'll find me guilty regardless, so I'll just plead guilty here and now, and get it out of the way." 

"All you'd have to do for the trial is be sworn in and then say you plead guilty." 

"Yes, and then I'd have to sit through evidence and testimonies and Merlin knows what else, and I'd be terribly bored and in the end it would be exactly the same as if I'd never had the trial at all, except that I'll have wasted some of the last hours of my life." 

"It's not avoidable," I tell him slowly. "You'll have to have one." 

"I wave my right," he insists. "I don't have to. They can sentence me without one." 

"You were always so damned difficult!" I slam my fist down hard, upsetting the table. A little trickle of coffee forms around the bottom of my mug, and I settle back, breathing hard and trying to regain my calm. This is just so typical, so very Snape of him. It's predictable in the worst way. "You were always bent on making my life hell." 

"I seem to remember saying something similar to you not so very long ago," he murmurs, looking at the wall above my head. 

I sigh. "What has this all been for? Why did you put yourself through this, when you could have gotten away?" 

"There you go again," he smirks. "Always prying into other people's personal matters, as though it is your right to know. Really Harry, you should have been a reporter. It would be ironic. You could interview yourself when business was slow; bleed your secrets to the world drop by precious drop until you'd drawn out an autobiography." 

"At least I'm asking the right questions," I shoot back. 

"Oh? What makes you so certain? If I wanted to, Harry, if I thought it was worth it, I could a tale unfold that would make thy two eyes like stars." Snape smirks and licks his lips slowly, his rich voice rolling out like hypnotic waves. "If I wanted to, of course." 

"What'll it take?" I growl. 

He leers. "I think you know." I snort, and he narrows his eyes. "You should know better than to expect something for nothing." 

"I came here to help you," I remark incredulously. "After everything you did, I came here today to help you, and this is how you treat me? Like a fucking prostitute? Forget it. I don't care why you did any of it. I don't care who Arienette is, or what happened to her. And I sure as hell don't care what happens to you. The sooner they exterminate you the better." I stand up to go. 

"You'll find a way to make me tell you," he says. "You will. Go out there and make me proud." 

"Fuck you," I say. "You weren't good anyway." 

I'm almost to the door when he calls after me. "Oh, and Harry? If you don't want me to treat you like a whore, then stop acting like one." 

* * * 

It's the same dream I have every night, only it's different tonight. It starts at the end, with that complete silence and the comfort of his body next to mine, the safety of his warmth and strength around me. And there it is, a reflection of the peace I've lost forever, but with one haunting difference, one word written over it all in startling red graffiti; extermination. 

When the Dementors joined forces with Voldemort the Ministry needed a new prison system and a new method of execution. The prison was easy enough to rebuild; a few extra wards, some complicated charms courtesy of the world's strongest wizards, and the convicts were definitely not going anywhere. The executions were harder to reconcile. 

Previously there had been no executions. The word itself was loathsome to the Ministry, because of its negative connotations. There was the Dementor's Kiss, which was something completely different. It eradicated a soul, not a life, and somehow that passed as merciful with the general population. No one ever raised a commotion about it the way some Muggles do over their death penalties. 

The politics of execution now had to be reworked. For a while it seemed like it might be completely done away with, but our wonderfully vengeful Minister of Magic would never let that happen, and it only took a year of haphazard beheadings and killing curses before they discovered The Machine. 

The Machine is a real work of art. It's at once a judge and an executioner. Developed by the most brilliant and sadistic minds on the planet, The Machine not only ascertains guilt, but also puts the guilty to death. It was originally intended to replace all court systems. 

There are always set backs though, and the obvious one in this case is that The Machine has been known to make mistakes. In theory, the guilty will step into it and be consumed by a flame unlike any other, subjected to a fire so hot their skin melts from their body and their blood congeals after a few brief moments. And in theory, the innocent man may step into The Machine without fear, because he will be seen for his innocence and spared. Only, once or twice in the testing process, things didn't quite go as planned. So we've kept our court systems, in order to insure that no one is accidentally eaten by the flames of vengeance without deserving it first. 

And in my dream The Machine is present, the word extermination on the tip of my tongue as I try to burrow back into my lover's arms, as I try to deny the reality of what is happening. The glass of the walls of the dreaded Machine, all fogged with smoke and blood, all sound blocked away, and the fear in that pale face, and the undeniable pain in those onyx black eyes… 

I wake up to the radio, and the screams dry up like scabs within my throat. 

III. 

The papers are running the story. 

"Murder Caught After Five Year Killing Spree!" 

"Severus Snape Brought In By Boy Hero!" 

"End of Death Eater's Reign of Terror!" 

The headlines are so inaccurate I don't bother buying one, or even glancing at them twice. Instead I go down to my little bakery, buy myself a cinnamon roll and a latte, and head to work. My co-workers applaud my entrance, clapping me on the back and saying things like, "Good show, old boy!" I smile and nod, grimace and work my way into the safety of my office. 

The papers on my desk today need my signature. They need me to say that yes, I caught Severus Snape and no, I did not use unnecessary violence and yes, I do believe that he killed all those poor, sad people. They need me to sign a stack of reports and write up the details of his capture, and then they can tie up his life with twine and wires and shove him in and hit a button and eradicate the issue. They need my approval before they can make his life a moot point. 

So I'm up to my neck in paperwork and I skip lunch and work straight through the day without stopping. I even forget coffee until the new girl they've got working as Abernathy's personal assistant, i.e. terrified fuck toy, brings me a mug around one in the afternoon. I tell her thanks and my voice cracks, and she smiles in this half scared kind of way and backs away from me cautiously until she's out the door. Poor little concubine. 

When I get home I'm too tired to change or shower, and I just fall onto the bed and I'm asleep in five seconds. It's probably the lack of caffeine, I decide as I slide off into a dream. 

* * * 

The next morning when I walk into the office Abernathy is waiting for me with a grin on his face. "Good news Harry! We've had Snape sentenced and he'll be exterminated tomorrow. Yes, my boy, by this time next week this whole thing will be behind us and it's all thanks to you! You should be running this division! If I don't watch out you'll have my job by Christmas!" He laughs and claps me on the back. "I smell a raise in store for you, Harry." 

I mutter my thank you and fall asleep at my desk. I forgot to get any coffee this morning, and I haven't had any since that mug the girl brought me yesterday. Abernathy wakes me up around ten when he knocks on the door. I shudder into the waking world in time to tell him to come in. 

He looks considerably less chipper now than he did this morning, and he flings himself into the chair in front of my desk in a defeated way and runs a hand through his hair. "It's this whole damned thing," he tells me earnestly. "Really, I just can't wait till the extermination. He's insisting on seeing you privately tonight. Insisting! Can you believe it?" 

"What does he want," I ask. "And why do we have to listen to him?" 

"He won't say what he wants. Probably a chance to curse you into oblivion. We don't have to meet his request, but if we don't it'll look bad. I understand if you say no. I'll tell them you're sick. You look like hell as it is. Have you been sleeping?" 

"Rather more than usual. When does he want to see me?" 

"He says he wants to meet with you at eight tonight. Privately, he says." 

"I'll do it." 

Abernathy gives me a slow, calculating look. "You don't have you," he finally says. 

"I know. I'll do it anyway." 

His eyes close up like periscopes and he smiles his vacant smile. "That's what I like about you; you're always ready to give of yourself! You're a good man Harry, a good man." He stands, still smiling, and walks out of the room. As soon as the door shuts I fall back asleep. 

* * * 

The dream I'm having is different from anything else. In it, I'm back at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore and Sirius and Remus and Abernathy are all there, sitting at the head table, clapping for me. I'm sitting at Gryffindor's table, and I realise that I've just won the house cup. I feel proud, and elated, and I know that Gryffindor has won thanks to my hard work and intelligence. 

Slowly, I begin to realise that I'm the only person in the hall aside from the people at the head table, and they aren't all there themselves. Remus has grown long, sharp teeth, more like a shark's than a wolf's, and he's taking gentle bites out of Sirius cheek. Sirius is grinning down at me, applauding proudly as Remus tears away hunks of his flesh. Dumbledore has rounded up a handful of knives and he's busy sticking his hand to the table with them. Abernathy is busily puncturing holes in his own throat with a spare fork, so that whenever he moves to take a drink the pumpkin juice just slides out the holes he's made. 

So I get up and walk out, leaving them to their lunacy and their destruction. I walk into the hallway and I fall through a hole in the floor and into the dungeons, where several students are clamped to the walls in chains. There's the sound of screaming as I walk down the line of bound children, trying not to look at their faces. 

And then I'm standing in front of a wall where one person is suspended, clamped to the stone wall with hooks through his hands and shoulders and ribs, stretching his skin and keeping him in place. As I watch his dark eyes open and he smiles down at me. 

* * * 

I wake up because it's lunch and Ron has come down to see if I'm okay. I tell him no, and go with him to the cafeteria anyway. Seamus looks at me curiously and then gets up and buys me three cups of coffee. I tell him thanks and count that as my lunch. Alarbus looks at me under his dark lashes and tells me I look like hell. I try to grin, but it comes out like a grimace, and I give up and go back to nursing my coffee. 

"Harry, what on earth is wrong with you man?" Ron finally asks. "You look like you're dying." 

"I'm not feeling well," I confess. 

"That's a bit of an understatement, don't you think?" He crosses his arms and purses his lips, looking so like Hermione that it almost makes me laugh. I nearly tell him, but then remember why that would be a bad idea. "Are you finished with the Snape case?" 

"Almost," I say, running a hand back through my messy hair. "I have to see him tonight and then everything will be over." 

Alarbus raises an eyebrow at me quizzically. "Do you really think it's wise to meet with him? He's known for his trickery." 

"I'll be fine," I snap. "I've dealt with him before, and he will be unarmed. It'll be fine." I glower and brood over my coffee, and no one bothers me for the rest of lunch. 

As I get up to return to my office Ron touches my arm. "If you need anything," he begins. 

"Thank you," I mutter. "I'll be fine." 

"It's not just that," he says. "You seemed alive while you were on this case. You seemed interested in a way you haven't lately. Not since school really. But now…now that he's caught you seem depressed. What happened to you?" 

"I just…I'm tired is all," I say. I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's too much to process so quickly, everything I've seen and learned over the past few weeks. "I just need some time," I tell him, "to sort things out, and then I'm sure everything will go back to normal." 

"That's not really a good thing," he mutters, but he lets me go, and I try not to think about what he's said. 

I do a remarkably good job of it, in fact. 

IV. 

At eight o'clock I'm waiting outside his cell. The guards explain standard procedure to me. There are no charms, no way for them to see me if I need help. I'll have my wand and, should anything go wrong, I must bang five times on the door to signal to them. This is also what I should do when I'm ready to leave. I have all night, they say. I swallow and nod, try to look like I'm not scared out of my wits. 

"Good luck," one of the guards finally says, and opens the door to let me in. I step in nervously, clutching a mug of coffee to my chest. 

The cell is sparsely furnished, grey walls, tile floor, no window. There's a cot in the coroner, and a door, which must be to the bathroom I decide. In the middle of the room is a table with two chairs, one of which has Snape seated in it. He looks up as I come in, and smiles at me as if this is a completely normal situation. "Harry, how nice to see you again." 

"Cut the shit, Snape," I growl, wrenching my chair out and sitting down heavily. "I've got a proposition for you." 

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh really?" 

"Yes really, you arrogant prig. You knew I would, or you wouldn't have set this up." I reach into my coat pocket and extract a minute cut glass bottle. I place it on the table between us. "Veritaserum," I clarify. "Drink it, and tell me everything, and then maybe, if I like your story, we'll see if I can't get you out of here alive." 

He smirks and closes his hand around the bottle. "I have to say, Harry, you've done exactly what I hoped you would." I sneer at him, and he uncorks the bottle and downs the small amount. Sighing, he sits back, eyes a little glazed. "Ask whatever you want, then," he urges. 

"Start at the beginning," I say. "And work your way till now. I want to know everything." 

"I was born on September ninth, to Xerxes and Ramona Snape, in nineteen-" 

"Not that beginning," I interrupt, and he smirks. His eyes are saying ask the right questions. I take a deep breath and continue. "Start with the day I had detention, before you killed all those people. Tell me what happened." 

"Do you mind if I have a drink of your coffee? I find myself a little more nervous than I would have hoped," he smiles. I push the mug across the table and he takes a gulp, muttering his thanks. "I was in a bad mood that day," he says. "I'd been going back and forth between Voldemort and Dumbledore until I wasn't even sure whom I was working for, and whether I cared. The war seemed a thing outside myself. I felt like I was just another tool for Dumbledore's glorious victory, and it was wearing me down. I owed it to the world though, to your family in particular because of what James had done for me, saving my life when we were boys. I'd never repaid him, you know, except through you. 

"So I was beginning to feel rather stretched, and you, as you said, had detention that day." His eyes go all far away and spacey, and his words are low and dreamlike. "You were…young. Pretty. I remember wanting to make sure you never got hurt. I put you to what I felt was a relatively easy task of arranging jars. Of course, you managed to mess it up, per usual, and dropped a particularly rare sample. I believe it was a very carefully preserved cursed mermaid embryo. Naturally, the instant it hit the ground it began reacting with the oxygen in the room, and the preservations and charms on it that were keeping it intact but dormant were made void. The bloody thing made to attack you. 

"I stepped in like always to save the day. The curse on this particular piece of magic was deadly. It had been designed by one of the Death Eaters during the first war as an attack mechanism, capable of spreading disease with mere touch. So, despite its obvious value, I was forced to eradicate the creature to save you, while you lay on the floor and looked perfectly ridiculous." 

He takes a pause, draws in a deep breath and smiles at me. "Shall I go on?" 

"Don't bother," I retort. "What happened afterwards? After I left."   


"Ah. Well, I went to go see Dumbledore. I'd had an attack of guilt, and I knew that he'd find out quickly enough; he had his ways back then. I figured that confessing would make it easier, and maybe win me a little sympathy. However, as I neared the room I grew more anxious. After all, I could very well lose my job, and my safety. I lingered outside his door, trying to decide what to do, and it was then that I began to hear voices coming from inside. 

"It was Dumbledore and McGonagall, discussing you. McGonagall sounded furious, and Dumbledore was regretful but firm. Gradually I etched out a vague notion of what they were talking about, and it froze me. You know what I allude to?" 

"Very well, thank you," I grit. 

He nods and continues. "Well, I burst in after a few more minutes, screaming like a madman until Dumbledore cast a silencing charm on me and explained that it was all for the best. I wanted to throttle him. For the best? How could he say it was for the best! He was talking about your life! I knew he'd always used people; Sirius, Remus, McGonagall, me…I hadn't realised how much power he was extending over your life until that moment. 

"I was thinking all the while, trying to weigh out my options. Obviously I would get nowhere raging at him. He'd just lock me up somewhere or petrify me for the night, until it was too late. My only hope was to get out and save you before things went too far. When he took the charm off me and my voice was restored I was prepared to play the obedient child, and told him it was regrettable but that I now saw that the situation could not be helped. He beamed and twinkled at me, and McGonagall gave me this sad, suspicious look, and then they sent me on my way. 

"I spent the night planning what to do. Figg was already moving, I had no doubt. I kept watch over her rooms, and saw her take the children, all under Imperious, outside the castle walls and into the forest. I followed close behind, waiting. In the forest she was met by a band of Death Eaters, who had with them several bound and gagged Muggles. I listened in on their conversation and learned their plan. Figg would keep the children, and the Death Eaters would release the Muggles, pointing them in the direction of the school. When they got there they would raise the alarm and, while the teachers planned what to do, you would come running in to aid your friends and meet your death. 

"They were just getting ready to cut loose the muggles when I dropped down into their midst. I took out Figg first, cracked her spine in half. There were four Death Eaters left, and I knew I wouldn't be able to take them all at once. Luckily, two of them seemed to be busy with the muggles, which they were killing rapidly. I dashed to the children's aid first, leaving the muggles to die." 

He sighs and wipes a hand across his forehead. "Those screams will stay with me for the rest of my life, I know. The sounds of those six muggles begging for my help will ring in my ears until the day I die." 

I refrain from pointing out that that day is tomorrow if he doesn't get on with his story. 

"I killed one of the Death Eaters holding the children, but the other one began throwing killing curses at the children, warning me not to come closer or he'd finish them all off. I stood back, trying to decide what to do as he toyed with them. The muggles were all dead now, and the other two Death Eaters were circling me dangerously. 

" 'This just sweetens the deal,' one of them said, I think it was Lucius. 'We'll set one of the children free, and then Potter will come running to save his friends and his professor, and who will be there to save him?' They laughed, and I realised that they had me trapped. I could either attempt to save the lives of the children already there, and lose you, or sacrifice them to the Death Eaters, and assure your safety. 

"It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, I think. In the end, I knew I couldn't lose you, and the children were lost in the resulting battle. I won, however, and washed my hands in the blood of the fallen Death Eaters. 

"I hadn't counted on the general public believing I had killed them all," he sighed. "I remembered what they'd done to your godfather in the wake of the second war, and I knew they'd be out looking for scapegoats. So I did the logical thing and ran for my life." 

"And you traveled the world avoiding capture?" I said. "You were innocent?" 

"As innocent as I could be," he replied. 

"What about the deaths since then? The others?" 

"Every now and then someone senses what it is I'm running from. Either an Auror gets the notion to find me and kill me and bag a reward, or a Dark Wizard remembers the real story and sympathizes with their Death Eater comrades and comes after me, or an intuitive Muggle thinks I might be a threat and becomes an obstacle." 

"And what about Dudley?" 

"I did him on purpose, I confess. I knew you'd be coming and I wanted to do something nice for you." 

"Killing my cousin isn't usually interpreted as a benevolent gesture," I mutter. He shrugs. "Who is Arienette?" 

"Ah," he sighs. "Arienette. We met in France in the spring of 1999. It was right after I'd started using a glamour to make myself appear younger. I'd done a lot of thinking on the issue, you see, and come to the conclusion that my youth had been stolen from me; I'd been forced to live my life working for people who didn't care one jot about me, and I wanted a second chance. I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't have it, after all. And it made it easier. Things are always easier when you're young. At least this way no one would recognise me quite so easily. 

"Arienette was a Muggle, which suited me fine. I was completely prepared to live the rest of my life as a Muggle, if it would keep me out of trouble. So we traveled together from then on. We bought a house in every country, and went wherever we felt moved to go. She was…amazing. I never met anyone like her." 

"So you loved her," I remark, trying not to sound as upset as I'm feeling. 

He smiles at me. "Yes and no. In some ways she was perfect for me, everything I'd ever wanted but could never have because of my position as a spy and ex-Death Eater. She was young, and alive, and so intelligent and thoughtful that it blew me away sometimes. But then, she was a Muggle. She believed in what she could see, in what she could hold in her hands. She believed in science and in facts. 

"We spent four years together, moving from country to country, and I was perfectly content. We settled in Ireland for the last year, as you discovered." 

"Did you kill her?" 

"Gods no! I could never hurt her, anymore than I could ever hurt you. No, once we stopped moving she started to notice little things about me, put together incongruities in my actions and words, and realised there was something strange about me. As I said, she was, is, very clever. 

"She confronted me with it one night, demanding that I tell her exactly what it was I was hiding from her. What could I do? I confessed everything; my past, my identity, everything. She didn't believe me at first, but I showed her…what I could do." A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I spent the night doing magic tricks, convincing her. And then she just shattered, collapsed like a wrecked ship and screamed herself sick at me. She cursed me till her face turned blue and then she stormed out and I never saw her again." 

There's a long silence between us. This is nothing at all what I'd expected. I clear my throat. "Why do you always save my life?" 

"It's second nature by now," he shrugs. "I owed your family, your father, the world for my actions. I owed so many people it was easier to repay all my debts onto you." 

"Were you…were you in love with me?" I stammer, trying to get the words out before I lose my nerve. This is so stupid. 

"Completely," he purrs, and my heart starts pounding itself against my ribs. "I never felt anything like what I felt that night with you. I have to admit, I was disappointed to find that you didn't feel the same." 

"What makes you say that?" I ask. 

"Well, if you'd felt the same we wouldn't be here right now, would we? You wouldn't have called the Aurors and we'd be half way across the world." 

"Don't be so sure," I mutter. "Some of us have responsibilities." 

"Of course you do," he says soothingly. "Have you made up your mind about what to do with me yet?" 

I chew my lower lip. How many moments of truth can fit into one person's life, I wonder. Finally I nod and meet his eyes. "I'll help you out of here," I say. 

He smiles. "Good." 

V. 

We arrange it as follows. Snape takes my wand and breaks my nose. I bite my lip to keep from screaming bloody murder, and try not to notice the sadistic little gleam in his eyes as he leans in and kisses me through the veil of blood streaming down my face. This is for appearances, you see. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pounds on the door five times. 

When the door opens he stuns both the guards, knocking them out cold but not killing them. I was very insistent about that point. Then he returns my wand and we creep down the hallway, towards the exit. 

Half way there I stop and grab his sleeve. "Wait," I whisper. "I want to try something." 

I duck into a door and pull him with me, muttering a password and then going through a door. He's following me, a curious, hesitant expression on his face. He stops walking when he sees The Machine looming in front of us. 

"I want you to try it," I say innocently. "Since you're not guilty, I want you to try it." 

"Harry, don't be insane…" 

"I'm not!" I snap and point my wand at him. "Get in the fucking machine or we're going back to your cell right now." 

"You know it's faulty. It won't prove anything…Harry I took Veritaserum! I told you the truth." He pleads with me, hands held out but just out of my reach, his eyes plaintive and panicked. "Harry, please…" 

I shake my head. "Get in now." 

His eyes flash at me, his hands dropping to his sides as he straightens up. I can hear his denial hang between us, as yet unspoken but the only real option left. What will I do then? Why am I doing this now? He's right, I know; this won't prove a thing. 

And he surprises me completely then, takes a few delicate steps and then opens The Machine's glittering metal door and moves inside. My breath catches in my throat. "Push the fucking button," he mouths to me. 

I let my finger linger over the button, brushing its cool surface not quite hard enough. Will I or won't I? How badly do I want to believe him? I can sense that he's becoming impatient. How much longer do I think it will be before someone discovers us here? Is he guilty? Does it matter in the slightest? There are a thousand things I would change about myself in this moment, if I only could. 

Taking a deep breath, I jab at the panel to the left of the button and look up, pretending to act satisfied when nothing happens. My heart is thundering inside me like a beast and I run toward The Machine and fling the door open, his mouth crashing over mine a million times better than any dream has ever been. 

"I knew you weren't," I scramble to say, and realise I'm crying, blood and tears running down my face. "I'm so sorry. I knew it, I knew…" 

"It's okay," he tells me, running a shaking hand through my hair. "It's okay. I know. I know." 

I sob against him, broken in his arms. But this can't last, however much I want it to. I take a few shaky breaths before raising my face to his. "You have to go." 

"What about you?" he asks. "Come with me." 

"I can't," I tell him. "I'll find you, someday. But I can't go with you now. You know it wouldn't work." 

He turns to go, but stops himself and comes back to me, runs his hand down the side of my face in one last caress before he slips out the door and I sink to the floor, sobbing into my hands until someone comes and finds me, picks me up and puts me back together, good as new. 

* * * 

The paperwork takes on a different note then. I don't pay much attention to what I'm signing, what it is I'm saying happened that night, but I catch snatches of it. I was overpowered by Severus Snape and put under a temporary confundus curse. My nose was broken in a scuffle with him and I managed to save the guards from his wrath. I am a hero yet again. 

Abernathy is quieter. He insists on taking me to St. Mungo's and seeing to my nose. There is no more mention of my raise, as if I care. 

It's about a week later that something in a paper I'm signing catches my eye. It's a little yellow sticky pad with one sentence on it in perfect red scrawl. His. I grab it up at once, hold it close to my face and try to soak up the knowledge. 

"Did you know that caffeine negates the effects of Veritaserum?" 

I laugh so hard Abernathy comes running in to make sure I've not lost my mind. I tell him I'm taking a long vacation, shovel a few pens into my desk drawer, put the piece of paper in my pocket, and breeze past him and out the door. 

At home I throw myself onto the bed and fall asleep at once. I don't have any dreams. When I wake up Galatea is sitting on my chest and staring at me steadfastly. I blink at her and she meows and jumps down. I reach over to the bedside table and put on my glasses. 

"How are you feeling, Harry?" 

I freeze, not looking at him. I know where he is; he's sitting right there in my armchair watching me through his intensely black eyes. I don't have to look to know. I don't want to know. 

"Ignoring a thing won't make it go away, you know." 

"What about cursing a thing?" I mutter, reaching for my wand. 

"I wouldn't try it if I were you," he warns. "If you try turning around and looking at me you'll see that I have my wand pointed right at your head." 

I lay back and turn slowly to look at him. True to his word, his wand is trained on the spot between my eyes. He smirks. His face is young again; young and irresistible with his flawless white skin and his full vicious mouth.   
  
"Aren't you going to welcome me?" he asks. I say nothing. There's nothing to say, after what he did to me. "No? Well, how about greeting me? Can you manage a simple hello?" Silence. "Not talking to me then? Well, all right. I'll just leave then, shall I?" 

"Was it true?" I hear myself demand of him without any conscious thought. 

He pauses, between standing and sitting, caught in that space between worlds like sleep and awake, and smiles at me, raises one finger to his lips to signal silence, and shakes his head 'no' before walking away. I let him go. 

* * * 

It's the same dream I have every night. He's standing like a monolith, his face still carrying the shred of youth like a tattered torn defeated flag. And in a soft voice he asks me, "What about you? Come with me." 

I shake my head and grip his biceps, trying to keep him here as long as possible. "I'll find you someday. I'll find you…" 

It's the way I'll always try to remember him, the way I want him to be if I ever see him again. Not dressed in glamour and charms, or polished up young and strong. I'd want him the way he used to be, back when he saved my life once a week and gave me detentions to be served in freezing dungeons under his watchful eye. 

And in the dream he brushes a hand down the side of my face and the memory of his touch stays with me all night. I know when I wake up it will remain for the rest of my life. 

~fin~   
  
  



End file.
